Eliza should maintain her distance and protect what was left of her heart. But could she?
Thirty-One
Eliza looked at August’s outstretched hand. The gesture was simple, almost ordinary, but her heart responded as though he had offered her something far more precious. “I would like that,” she said, the words emerging softer than she intended. She meant it. The realization surprised her, settling somewhere deep in her chest where the hurt still lingered but no longer consumed everything else.
August’s head came up sharply. Something passed across his features—surprise, unmistakable and unguarded—before transforming into a smile that reached his eyes. She had forgotten what that looked like. Since his father’s death, his smiles had been careful things, constructed for the benefit of others, never quite touching the shadows that had taken up residence in his gaze.
This smile was different. Real.
She placed her hand in his. His palm was warm against hers, and the contact sent heat traveling up her arm and spreading through her chest. He closed his fingers around hers, gentle but secure, and drew her toward the door.
The hallway outside his study was mercifully empty. No lingering servants, no well-meaning sisters appearing at inopportune moments. Just the two of them and the late afternoon light slanting through the windows, painting everything gold.
They walked in silence to the terrace doors. August pushed them open with his free hand, never releasing her, and the garden air rushed in to meet them. It carried the scent of roses and fresh-cut grass and something green and alive that made her lungs expand more fully than they had in days.
She watched his shoulders drop as they stepped outside. Not dramatically—August was too controlled for that—but enough that she noticed. The rigid set of his spine eased. The tension that had been pulling him tight as a bowstring since the argument seemed to loosen its grip, if only slightly.
The garden does this to him. Or perhaps it is simply being away from the walls and expectations and endless responsibilities.
They descended the terrace steps together. The gravel path crunched beneath their feet, and she became acutely aware of every small point of contact between them. His thumb rested against the side of her hand. His arm brushed hers as theywalked. He matched his stride to hers without seeming to think about it, the way one might adjust to a dance partner.
The silence stretched, but it was not uncomfortable. It felt as though they were both testing whether they could exist together in this space without words to fill the gaps or smooth the rough edges.
“You visited the orphanage this morning,” August said finally.
She glanced at him. His tone was careful, interested but not pressing. As though he genuinely wished to know rather than simply making conversation.
“I did. Mrs. Everett was grateful for the new supplies. The children have been using the slates constantly.”
“I am glad to hear it.” He paused, then added, “Was it a good visit?”
The question was simple, but something about the way he asked it—tentative, almost shy—made her chest tighten.
“It was,” she said. “Though I nearly did not make it out the door. One of the younger boys, Timothy, decided I could not possibly leave without hearing about the frog he had found in the garden. He provided a very thorough description. I now know more about amphibian anatomy than I ever thought necessary.”
August’s mouth curved. “Did he attempt to show you the actual frog?”
“He did. Mrs. Everett intervened before it could be produced from his pocket, thank heavens.”
“A wise woman.”
They turned onto the path that led toward the formal gardens. The hedges rose on either side, perfectly trimmed, and ahead she could see the entrance to the rose garden with its climbing blooms.
“There was another boy,” she said. “William. He is seven and has only recently arrived at the orphanage. His mother died last month.”
August’s hand tightened around hers. “Poor child.”
“He has been struggling with his letters. The other children pick up their lessons quickly, but William stares at the page as though the words are hiding from him.” She smiled at the memory. “Today, he managed to read an entire sentence without assistance. Just one sentence, but he was so proud. When I praised him, he reached into his pocket and produced a sweet. A peppermint, slightly sticky and covered in lint.”
“Did you accept it?”
“How could I not? He held it out with such solemnity, as though he were offering me the Crown Jewels. He said—” Her throat went tight, and she had to swallow before continuing. “He said it was payment for the lesson. That his mother always told him to pay his debts.”
She had not expected August to laugh. The sound burst out of him, warm and genuine and so unexpected that she stopped walking and turned to stare.
He was grinning. Not the polite smile he wore for drawing rooms, not the careful expression he maintained for his steward or the solicitor. This was unguarded delight, crinkling the corners of his eyes and softening every line of his face.
He looks years younger,she thought.He looks like himself.