Page 33 of Duke of Fire
She nodded and turned away. She was still getting accustomed to being called Lady Barrington, and when August said it just now, it was as though he liked her having the title.
Up the stairs, through the empty halls, and into the safe dark of her own chamber, Eliza tried to put the evening behind her. She removed her jewelry, unlaced her dress, and set the blue silk neatly across the chair.
At the mirror, she studied the reflection: her hair coming undone, her skin flushed, and eyes clear. She searched herself for hurt and found, instead, a churning curiosity.
Why did it bother her? Why did she want him to be what he only pretended to be?
Ten
You are a marchioness now. Let the world come to you.
Lady Hartwell’s words echoed in Eliza’s mind. What she had not considered was the world arriving as a wage ledger and a notice from Mrs. Finch regarding the imminent departure of Mr. Atkinson, a footman.
Now, Eliza approached August’s study with the papers pressed to her chest. At the door, she knocked softly, but there was no answer.
She waited then knocked again, louder. Nothing.
The handle turned in her palm, and she pressed the door open an inch. “My Lord?” she called. The words sounded wrong in her mouth.
Inside, the study was a study in the artful shambles of busy men. There were three ledgers open on the desk, each marked in adifferent color of ink. Loose sheets, weighted by an empty glass, formed an island in the center. But the master of the room—August, the Golden Rake and terror of theton—was not upright behind his desk. He was draped across it, head pillowed on his folded arm, the knuckles of his left hand still curled around a quill.
He was asleep. Utterly, shamelessly, asleep. In the broad light of morning.
Eliza closed the door behind her and regarded the scene. It was as if a marble statue had toppled and been too proud to ask for help rising. She did not know what to do: retreat or observe or wake him and pretend none of it had happened.
He breathed slow and deep, the lines of his face slackened from their usual tension. In sleep, the golden-brown stubble shadowed his jaw unevenly. She noticed, for the first time, how young he looked. Or, rather, how little of his true age he permitted to show.
A movement on the desk caught her attention: the unfinished letter, written in a hand that teetered between control and collapse. The address was to a Dr. Henry Charleston, a medical man of reputation.
She did not mean to read it. But the first line was inescapable:
Dr. Charleston,
I write in regards to my father’s declining health as you were recommended by both my mother and our mutual acquaintance Lady Ingram.
The next lines ran in quick succession, then tripped and tangled:
I am aware that—crossed out—You doubtless have seen cases more desperate, but I must ask—no, insist—that you come at once. The situation is not yet dire, but we— here the ink bled, the line scratched over —I have lost too much already. I will not lose him as well.
The rest of the page was blank, save for a final, wavering attempt:
If there is any hope. Please advise. Yours?—
The signature was only an initial.
Eliza set the papers down, fighting the urge to touch his shoulder, to rouse him gently. He looked so unlike himself, so unlike the man who had dominated ballrooms, who had held her hand in public and taunted his rivals as if life were merely the sum of its performances.
He is not a villain,she thought.He is only a man, and he is tired.
She set about making the room less cold. The fire had died to a stubborn red core. She found a few splinters in the kindling basket and coaxed it back to life, careful not to make a sound.
She gathered the tray from the low table by the window—the teapot, now stone-cold, the cup stained with a dark crescent, a plate that had once held a roll. She balanced it in one hand and with the other, fetched a wool blanket from the armchair. She paused beside him.
The instinct was to drape it carefully over his shoulders, to avoid even the suggestion of touch. But as she moved, August shifted. He lifted his head a fraction, eyes still shut, and muttered a syllable that was only half her name.
She froze, heart battering her ribs, the blanket a barrier between impulse and discretion.
He said, “Don’t—” and then subsided, face pressing to the crook of his elbow, the words dissolved in a breath.
