Eliza’s breath caught.Securing a wife.
“The circumstances were admittedly unusual,” August said, “but I believe we have managed well enough.”
“More than well enough. A practical solution, sensibly executed. And the Duchess appears well-suited to her position from what I have observed.”
“She is.” A pause. “Eliza has proven herself more than capable.”
The words should have pleased her. They were compliments, after a fashion. But something about the way they were spoken—clinical, detached, as though discussing the merits of a new steward—made her chest tighten.
“I confess,” the advisor continued, “I had my doubts when I first heard the news. A marriage arranged so quickly under such circumstances. But you made the right choice, Your Grace. The estate needed security, and you provided it. A timely marriage that ensured stability during a volatile period.”
The gold line of light beneath the door blurred. Eliza blinked, and the world came back into focus, sharp and cruel.
“I hope you are pleased with how matters have settled,” the advisor said.
“I am.” August’s voice was quiet. “The marriage has served its purpose well.”
The wall beneath her hand seemed to tilt. She pressed harder against it, needing the solidity of stone to keep her upright. Her lungs had forgotten how to work properly. Each breath came shallow and insufficient, as though the air in the hallway had turned to water.
She had been convenient. A solution to a problem. A duchess-shaped piece that fit neatly into the space his father’s death had left empty.
And she had been fool enough to think it might become something more.
The conversation continued, but she could no longer parse the words. They washed over her in waves of sound that meant nothing. Her hand slipped from the wall, and she took a step backward. Then another. Her feet carried her away from the library.
Which it was. Which it always was.
She climbed the stairs to her chamber. Her body moved on its own, disconnected from her mind. One hand on the banister. One foot in front of the other. Mechanical. Efficient.
The door to her bedchamber closed behind her with a soft click. She stood in the center of the room and stared at nothing.
She had known of course. Had understood from the beginning that their marriage was born of scandal and necessity. Butsomewhere in the past months, she had allowed herself to hope. To believe that perhaps what had started as convenience might grow into something real.
The rose garden. The orphanage. The kiss in the carriage that had felt like a promise.
His hands holding hers. His mouth pressing against her knuckles. The way he had looked at her as though she mattered.
She crossed to her writing desk and lowered herself into the chair. The surface was neat, everything in its place. Paper, ink, blotter. The tools of correspondence that a duchess required.
She pulled a sheet of paper toward her and uncapped the inkwell. Her hand did not shake as she dipped the quill. Did not tremble as she set nib to paper.
She folded the paper and set it aside then she rose and moved to the wardrobe.
Her dresses hung in neat rows. Silks and satins in colors appropriate for a duchess. Morning dresses and afternoon dresses and ball dresses she had worn precisely once. A fortune in fabric and lace, none of it hers. Not really.
She pushed past them to the back, where her older things still hung. The dresses she had brought from Lady Hartwell’s house. Plain muslins and sturdy wool, serviceable and forgettable. She pulled three from their hooks and laid them across the bed.
The valise sat on the top shelf of the wardrobe. She dragged it down, set it on the floor, then knelt beside it. The leather was scuffed at the corners, bearing the marks of previous journeys. She had carried it when she first came to London. Had packed it the morning she married August and moved into Wildmoore Hall.
Now, she would pack it again.
She folded the dresses with care, smoothing each crease before laying it in the valise. Three dresses. Two petticoats. A nightdress. Stockings. Her plainest bonnet.
The books on her bedside table were next. Three volumes, all well-worn. She had brought them from her mother’s house years ago, and they had moved with her to Lady Hartwell’s then here. They were hers in a way the matched sets in the library would never be.
She placed them in the valise atop the dresses.
Her mother’s locket lay in the jewelry box on the dressing table. The only piece she wore regularly, the only one that mattered. She lifted it from its velvet nest and fastened it around her neck. The metal was warm from where it had been sitting, and she pressed her palm against it, feeling the familiar shape through her skin.