Her cup clattered against the saucer. She looked toward the door, which she had left open, and watched in horror as the footsteps grew louder.
There was no time to think. She set down her tea, gathered her skirts, and bolted through the French doors onto the terrace. The morning air was cool against her face as she pressed herself against the wall, just out of sight of the windows.
Through the glass, she watched August enter the drawing room. He stopped just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. He looked at the abandoned teacup, at the book she had left on the side table, at the chair that still bore the impression of where she had been sitting.
He was looking for her.
Her heart did something acrobatic in her chest. She held perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, as he moved further into the room. He picked up the book, examined the title, and set it down again. His jaw was tight, and there was something in his posture that looked almost like disappointment.
“Eliza?” he called, and the sound of her name in his mouth made her press harder against the wall.
Silence. He stood there for a long moment then ran a hand through his hair and turned to leave. She watched him go, waiting until his footsteps had faded entirely before she dared to move.
She slipped back inside, abandoning the tea and the book, and made her way upstairs. Her bedchamber was the only place she could be certain he would not follow. A gentleman did not enter a lady’s private rooms uninvited, not even if the lady in question was his wife.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her breath coming fast. This could not continue. She could not spend the rest of her life fleeing from room to room like a fugitive. Eventually, they would have to speak.
But not now. Not when her heart was still racing and her lips still remembered the pressure of his mouth. Not when she did not trust herself to maintain any semblance of composure.
She crossed to the window and looked out at the gardens below. The morning sun was bright, and the roses were beginning to bloom. Everything looked perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary.
But nothing was ordinary anymore. Nothing would ever be ordinary again.
Because she had kissed August Vestiere. And worse, far worse, she had wanted to.
She still wanted to.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
“Eliza, my dear, what a lovely surprise!” Dorothy Vestiere set aside her embroidery and rose to embrace her. “I was just thinking how dull the day was becoming, and here you are to rescue me from my own company.”
“I hope I am not intruding,” Eliza said, returning the embrace with genuine affection. “I should have sent word ahead.”
“Nonsense. You are family now. You may intrude whenever you please.” Dorothy gestured to the sofa. “Come, sit. I shall ring for tea, and you must tell me everything. How is August managing? He has not been to see me in three days, and I begin to worry he is working himself to exhaustion.”
Eliza settled onto the sofa, grateful for something to focus on beyond her own tumultuous thoughts. “He is managing as well as can be expected. Though you are right to worry about the exhaustion. He sleeps very little and eats less.”
“That sounds exactly like his father. Albert was the same after his own father died. Threw himself into the work as though he could outrun the grief.” Dorothy accepted the tea tray from a maid and began to pour. “It took me months to convince him he was allowed to feel sad and that he did not have to be strong every moment of every day.”
“How did you convince him?”
Dorothy’s mouth curved into a small, private smile. “I cried. Great, heaving sobs right in front of him. He was so alarmed he forgot to maintain his own composure, and before either of us knew what was happening, we were both weeping like children.” She handed Eliza a cup. “Sometimes the only way to give someone permission to fall apart is to fall apart yourself.”
Eliza accepted the tea, turning the words over in her mind. She thought of August in the hallway last night, lost and uncertain. Of the dream that had made him feel seventeen again, unprepared and afraid.
“You miss him,” Eliza said quietly.
“Every moment.” Dorothy’s eyes grew bright. “But I am learning to live with the missing. To wake each morning and face the day, even when the day seems unbearably empty.” She took a sip of her tea. “June and her husband are planning an expedition to Greece. They have invited me to join them.”
“You should go.”
“Do you think so? I worry it might seem disrespectful. Albert has only just?—”
“Albert would want you to live,” Eliza interrupted gently. “And a change of scenery might help. New sights, new experiences. Something to occupy your mind beyond these walls.”
Dorothy studied her for a long moment. “You are very wise for someone so young.”
“I am not wise. I simply know what it is to live in the same place while grieving and how the walls begin to close in.”