She nodded. What else could she do? He was a duke. He had responsibilities that could not wait simply because his wife wished to spend more time standing in a rose garden.
“Tomorrow,” she managed.
He held her gaze for another heartbeat then strode away across the lawn. The steward fell into step beside him, already launching into an explanation she could not hear. She watched August’s shoulders straighten, watched him become the Duke of Wildmoore again rather than simply August, the man who had kissed her hand and looked at her as though she were something precious.
Eliza looked down at her hand. The one he had kissed. She could still feel the ghost of his lips against her skin, could still see the expression on his face when he had raised her hand to his mouth.
How many times would they find each other, only to be pulled apart by duty or obligation or the hundred small demands that came with being a duke and duchess? How many moments would be interrupted, how many conversations left unfinished, how many kisses never quite given?
Thirty-Two
The door to her sitting room crashed open with enough force to rattle the teacup on its saucer. Eliza’s quill fell onto the page, leaving a dark streak of ink through the letter she had been writing to Mrs. Everett.
The footman in the doorway looked as though he had run the length of the house, his face flushed and his carefully maintained composure cracking at the edges.
“Your Grace.” He struggled to catch his breath. “Mrs. Finch requests your presence immediately in the servants’ quarters. She says it is most urgent.”
Eliza set down her quill though her pulse had already begun to quicken. Mrs. Finch was not given to dramatic summons. In the months Eliza had been mistress of this house, the housekeeper had maintained an unshakeable calm through everything from broken china to a small kitchen fire. If she deemed somethingurgent enough to send a footman running, then something was genuinely wrong.
“Thank you. Tell Mrs. Finch I shall be there directly.”
The footman bowed and withdrew, and Eliza rose from her desk. Her hands wanted to shake. She pressed them flat against her skirts and forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly.Composure. A duchess maintains composure, no matter what awaits her below stairs.
She made her way through the hallway and down the back stairs that led to the servants’ domain. The stone steps were worn smooth by decades of feet, and the air grew cooler as she descended. Voices drifted up from below—low, urgent, the kind of whispers that stopped the moment she appeared in the doorway.
The servants’ hall was crowded. Far more crowded than it should have been at this hour. Footmen and maids lined the walls, their faces turned toward the center of the room where Mrs. Finch stood with her spine rigid as an iron post. Beside her stood a young maid Eliza recognized as Martha—one of the newer girls, hired perhaps three months ago. The girl’s eyes were red and swollen, and her hands twisted her apron with such force that the fabric had gone white at the knuckles.
The whispers died completely when Eliza entered. Every head turned. Every pair of eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
Mrs. Finch stepped forward. “Your Grace. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“What has happened?”
The housekeeper’s mouth was pressed into a thin line. She looked at Martha then back at Eliza, and something in her expression made Eliza’s stomach drop.
“I discovered Martha in your private chambers approximately half an hour ago. She was going through your writing desk.”
The words landed like stones in still water. For a moment, Eliza could not process them. Martha had been in her desk? Going through her private papers?
“I see.” Her voice came out calm though she did not feel steady at all. She looked at the girl, who had gone deathly pale. “Is this true?”
Martha’s chin trembled. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No sound emerged.
“Answer Her Grace,” Mrs. Finch said, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.
“I—yes. Yes, it is true.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “But I did not mean—that is, I was not stealing, I swear I was not?—”
“Then what were you doing?”
The girl’s face crumpled. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she pressed both hands to her mouth as though she could hold back the sobs threatening to break free.
Mrs. Finch’s expression did not soften. “You will answer Her Grace’s question. Immediately. Or you will be dismissed without references and turned out before the hour is done.”
“No! Please, no, I need this position, I have nowhere else to go?—”
“Then explain yourself.”
Martha drew a shaking breath. The apron in her hands was now twisted beyond recognition. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.