The rage was still there, hot and insistent, fed by the words on that page.The way you looked when you came to me, breathless and wanting.But beneath it, colder and sharper, was doubt.
Eliza had looked genuinely shocked. Genuinely hurt. And her accusation about the theater?—
He had gone to the theater. Twice. But not for the reasons she had appeared to believe. Not even close.
Twenty-Nine
Eliza’s feet carried her through the village without conscious direction. One step, then another, her mind replaying August’s accusations until they took on the quality of a nightmare. Except nightmares ended when one woke. This continued, relentless and inescapable.
You have proven yourself quite capable of deception.
The words burned. Burrowed under her skin and festered there, poisoning everything they had built. Everything she had allowed herself to hope for.
She had been a fool, an absolute fool, to think their marriage could become something real. To believe that the man who kissed her in the carriage, who looked at her as though she hung the moon, might actually trust her. Might actually see her as more than a convenient solution to a scandal.
Who had written that letter? Who wanted her marriage destroyed badly enough to fabricate evidence of an affair? The handwriting had not been familiar, and the contents—she shuddered. Someone had gone to great lengths to make it convincing. The intimate details, the references to past meetings, the implication of an ongoing liaison.
But August had believed it. That was what cut deepest. He had read that letter and immediately assumed the worst. Had not even paused to consider that she might be innocent, that someone might be trying to hurt them.
She stopped walking and found herself standing in front of the orphanage. The building looked solid and welcoming in the afternoon light, and something in her chest loosened slightly. At least here, she was wanted. At least here, no one suspected her of terrible things or accused her of betrayals she had never committed.
She climbed the steps and pushed open the door.
Mrs. Everett appeared almost immediately, her face brightening. “Your Grace! What a lovely surprise. We were not expecting you until Thursday.”
“I hope I am not intruding. I simply—” Eliza’s voice caught, and she had to clear her throat. “I found myself with some free time and thought I might be useful.”
Mrs. Everett’s expression shifted to concern. “Are you well, my dear? You look rather pale.”
“I am perfectly well. Only in need of distraction, perhaps.”
“Then you have come to the right place. Little Thomas has been asking after you all morning, and Mary needs help with her letters. She is determined to read that book you brought last week, but some of the words are proving troublesome.”
Eliza nodded and allowed herself to be led inside, into the chaos of children and lessons and simple, uncomplicated needs. Here, there were no accusations. No letters. No husbands who looked at her with suspicion and rage.
Here, she could breathe.
Two days later, Eliza walked the gardens alone, her book tucked under her arm though she had no real intention of reading it. The morning was cool and overcast, threatening rain but not yet delivering it. The roses were at their peak, the air heavy with their scent, but she barely noticed.
She had taken most of her meals in her room since the argument. Had avoided the breakfast room, the library, anywhere she might encounter August. It was childish, perhaps, but she could not bear to see him. Could not bear the way he looked at her now, as though she were a stranger. Or worse, an enemy.
The path curved ahead, and she heard voices. Male voices, one of them unmistakably August’s. She slowed, debating whether to turn back, but it was too late. They had already rounded the bend.
August stood with his steward, both men holding papers and appearing deep in discussion about something estate related. They both stopped when they saw her.
“Duchess,” August said, his voice carefully neutral.
Eliza nodded once, not trusting herself to speak. Her heart was doing complicated things in her chest, and her hands wanted to shake. She gripped her book more tightly and kept her gaze fixed somewhere over his left shoulder.
The silence stretched. She could feel him looking at her, could sense the weight of all the unsaid words between them. The steward shifted uncomfortably, clearly wishing himself anywhere else.
August nodded. “Good day.”
Eliza inclined her head again and continued walking. She passed within three feet of him, close enough to smell the soap he used, close enough to see the shadows under his eyes. Close enough to feel the chasm that had opened between them.
Three feet. It might as well have been a mile.
She did not look back. Did not allow herself to falter or slow her steps. She simply walked on until she reached the gate at the far end of the gardens then slipped through it and kept going.