She could see the truth of it in his face, in the fierce intensity of his gaze. He needed her to believe him. Needed her to understand that whatever Lady Wilhampton had imagined between them existed only in the Marchioness’ mind.
“I believe you.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders. He reached for her hand, and she let him take it, let him thread his fingers through hers.
“She did this because she was angry,” he said. “Because I married you instead of pursuing her. Because she thought herself entitled to this position, to this life, to me.” His grip on her hand tightened. “I am sorry. I am so desperately sorry that my past acquaintance with her has brought this trouble to our door.”
“It is not your fault.”
“Is it not? If I had been clearer in my rejections, if I had cut her from my acquaintance entirely?—”
“Then she would have found another reason to hate me. Another method to attack us.” Eliza shifted forward in her chair. “Some people poison what they cannot possess.”
“She will never come near you again. I promise.” August took her hand and held it in his, the gesture sending warmth through her.
Eliza wanted to hope and to believe that they could survive whatever else came at them.
But she had learned long ago that wanting something did not make it so.
And that hope, for all its beauty, could be the most dangerous thing of all when it blinded you to the threats still lurking in the shadows.
Thirty-Three
Sleep would not come. Eliza stared at the canopy above her bed until the shadows took on shapes that meant nothing and everything at once. She counted the minutes by the slow tick of the clock on the mantel. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Each one stretched longer than the last, pulling her further from any hope of rest.
The events of the day should have exhausted her. The revelation about Martha. Lady Wilhampton’s schemes laid bare. August’s apology in his study, the way he had taken her hand and looked at her as though she were something precious rather than merely convenient.
But her mind would not quiet. It turned over every word, every gesture, searching for meaning in the spaces between. Did he truly see her? Or did he see only what he needed her to be?
She threw back the coverlet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet, butshe welcomed the sensation. Something real. Something that anchored her to this moment instead of letting her drift into the endless circling of her own thoughts.
Her wrapper lay across the chair where her maid had left it. She pulled it on and tied the sash then moved to the door. Perhaps a walk would settle her mind. The hallways would be empty at this hour, and she could move through them like a ghost, bothering no one.
The hallway outside her chamber was dark, save for the moonlight streaming through the tall windows at each end. Her feet made no sound on the carpet runner as she walked, trailing one hand along the wall to orient herself. She knew this house now. Knew which floorboards creaked, which turns led where, which rooms held which purposes.
How strange. To know a place so intimately and still feel like a visitor.
She moved without destination, letting her feet choose the path. Down one hallway then another. Past the family portrait gallery where generations of Vestieres watched from their frames. Past the music room where someone—April, probably—had left sheets of music scattered across the pianoforte. Past the morning room where she and August had shared breakfast a lifetime ago before everything had grown so complicated.
The library lay ahead. She could see the faint glow of lamplight spilling from beneath the door, painting a thin gold line across the dark floor.
Someone is awake.
She slowed her steps. Perhaps she should turn back. If it was August, she did not know if she could face him tonight. Not when her defenses were down and her heart was too close to the surface.
But then she heard voices. Low. Male. Not August alone, then, but August and someone else.
Her hand found the wall, and she pressed herself against it, listening. She should not eavesdrop. Should not stand here in the dark straining to hear words not meant for her ears.
She stayed anyway.
“I must compliment you, Your Grace, for your timely marriage.”
The voice was unfamiliar. Not a member of the household staff. Perhaps his solicitor or his man of business. Someone who dealt with estate matters.
“You are too kind.” August said.
“Not at all. The duchy required stability, particularly in the weeks following your father’s death. The ton can be merciless when they sense weakness or uncertainty. Your swift action in securing a wife prevented any number of potential difficulties.”