Page 39 of Duke of Fire
He glanced down at her hand on his sleeve. “Only the ending.”
“And what is the ending?”
He considered. “That you are not sorry to have come.”
She gave him a look, unreadable. “I am not.”
He stopped, and so did she. There was no one around, not even a gardener in the hedges. The quiet pressed in.
He said, “I know I have given you little reason to trust me. Or to like me.”
She considered. “You are not what I expected. That is all.”
He felt the ache of her words but forced a smile. “Then I shall endeavor to become exactly what you expect, just to spite you.”
She shook her head. “You would not be able to sustain it.”
He wanted to say something clever but found nothing suitable.
A shadow moved at the periphery—a figure in black livery, standing just within sight. His steward, ever vigilant. August’s eyes went to the man then back to Eliza. The spell was broken.
She saw it at once. “You are needed.”
He hesitated, torn. “It can wait.”
She shook her head. “Can it?”
He swallowed. “No.”
They stood a moment longer then he took her hand, impulsive, and pressed it—gentle but certain. Her skin was cool, her fingers delicate in his.
“It cannot,” he said, voice low. “But it must. Forgive me.”
She looked at him, and for the first time, he saw no wariness, only a strange calm.
He released her hand and walked back toward the house, every step heavier than the last.
He wondered why the interruption stung so much, why it should matter that he left her alone among the roses and the bees.There was no room for this,he told himself.
But it didn’t stop him from wishing there was.
Twelve
“Pawn to e4, knight to f6, bishop—no, not yet,” Eliza murmured, her voice the only one in a room furnished for fifty. She set the black bishop down and studied the board, white and black armies in violent opposition over polished mahogany. It was just past seven in the evening, and Wildmoore Hall was sunk in the peculiar hush of an old house between crises.
She had dined alone. Mrs. Finch had brought soup and a cutlet at six precisely then vanished with the discreet efficiency of a stagehand. Eliza preferred it this way; the sight of the footman hovering in the next room or the clatter of plates only amplified the sense of being observed. With the meal finished, she had retreated here where the only witnesses were the rows of unread novels, the portrait of some smirking ancestor, and the chessmen, waiting for direction.
She tapped a pawn, and advanced it: “C4.” Then, for the opposition, “d5.” She ran the game in her mind, scoring each loss and gain, muttering her strategies as she went.
The door swung open, and August entered, a sketch of exhaustion in living form. His cravat was loosened, the edges of his collar soft with wear; his coat hung unbuttoned, his movements not so much lethargic as unguarded. He did not speak but watched her for a moment from the threshold, gloves in hand, before circling to the sideboard and pouring a glass of water.
She completed her next move, feinting a check with her knight. “If you have come to haunt the drawing room, you must at least pretend to admire my technique,” she said, not looking up.
August downed the water in three swallows. He replaced the glass with the care of a man used to things breaking in his wake. “What do you call this opening?”
Eliza turned the board. “The Hartwell Gambit. It relies on attrition and the opponent’s predictable arrogance.”
He smiled but not with his eyes. “I will keep that in mind.” Then, instead of leaving, he rounded the table and took the seat opposite her, sinking into the chair as if gravity had increased in his presence.
