August did not flinch. “It is always about my father. For now.”
She considered this, then nodded. “And for me?”
His jaw tightened. “For you, I imagine it is about survival.”
She smiled grimly. “How generous.”
August crossed the rug, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “What would you have had me do, Eliza? Lie? Let you face the wolves alone? There is no ‘friend’ in that ballroom who would have stood for you. Not one.”
Her mouth opened then shut. She returned the iron to its place with a dull click.
“You think I ought to thank you,” she observed.
“I think you should damn me,” he replied.
That caught her off guard. “You are more honest than I expected.”
“I am more tired than you expected.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruining its perfect arrangement. “Look, you do not have to like me. We can do the thing properly, if that is what you wish. I will marry you. I will protect you. You will never want for anything—except, perhaps, freedom from me.”
Eliza’s voice was flat. “You think that is comfort.”
“It is the best I can offer.” The words landed heavily between them.
She set her shoulders. “Then let us be clear, My Lord. I will not become another burden for you to shoulder. I will not be managed, protected, or bought off. If we must do this, let it be a transaction and nothing more.”
August blinked then nodded. “You want a marriage of convenience.”
“I want autonomy.” Her hands were steady now, every nerve knotted down tight. “And I want honesty. No false play, no performance for the room. If you need a marchioness for the season, I will do it. If you need a hostess for your ailing father, I will be present and perfect. But you will not own me.”
A smile twisted his mouth. “You have just described the perfect wife.”
“Then you will have it,” she said. “But do not expect gratitude.”
He inclined his head. “I would not know what to do with it.”
She turned away then spun back, one last spark. “You are not invulnerable, August. I see what it costs you.”
He met her gaze. “Do not pity me.”
“I don’t,” she said. “But you should stop pretending that you are doing any of this for anyone but yourself.”
That stopped him. He looked at her, really looked, and for the first time saw her not as a problem to solve but as someone standing on the same precarious ledge.
“You are sharper than anyone in that room,” he said.
“I have to be,” she replied.
He stepped back then bowed—an actual, deep bow, the sort that marked the end of an audience.
She watched him, chin tilted high. “Is that all, then?”
“For now,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “I suspect the world will require us in the drawing room. To perform our parts.”
She followed him to the door, neither yielding nor retreating. Just before he opened it, she touched his sleeve, barely a ghost of contact.
“One more thing,” she said. “Do not lie to me. About anything.”
He nodded, solemn as a judge. “No lies. Not to you.”