Page 76 of Duke of Fire
“Then I suggest you stop hiding in your bedchamber like a frightened rabbit and go speak to the man.” Lady Hartwell gave her hands a squeeze. “The worst that can happen is that you discover he does not return your feelings. The best that can happen is that you discover he does. Either way, you will know. And knowing is always better than this endless circling.”
“When did you become such a romantic?”
“I have always been a romantic. I simply hide it better than most.” Lady Hartwell released her hands and stood, smoothingher skirts. “Did I ever tell you about the time I punched Lord Hartwell in the nose?”
Eliza blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “You what?”
“Punched him. Right in the nose. Made it bleed all over his very expensive waistcoat.” She smiled at the memory. “He had been courting another woman while professing his devotion to me. So I confronted him at a ball, and when he tried to lie to my face, I drew back my fist and let him have it.”
“Aunt Martha!”
“He married me three weeks later. Said he had never met a woman with such conviction.” She laughed. “My point, dear child, is that love makes us all a bit mad. Embrace the madness. Run toward it. And if your husband proves himself unworthy, you have my permission to punch him in the nose.”
Despite everything, Eliza found herself laughing. “I shall keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.” Lady Hartwell walked her to the door, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Now go home. Face your fears. And for heaven’s sake, stop avoiding the poor man. He probably thinks you have taken ill with something contagious.”
Eliza left the townhouse feeling marginally better than when she had arrived. Lady Hartwell was right. She could not hide forever. Eventually, she would have to face August. Would haveto acknowledge what had happened between them and decide what it meant.
But not today. Today, she would return home and perhaps write another letter she had no intention of sending. She would eat dinner in her room and pretend her heart was not racing at the thought of seeing him.
Tomorrow. She would be brave tomorrow.
Or perhaps the day after.
August stared at the ledger until the numbers began to blur together. He had been over these accounts three times now, and the conclusion remained the same.
The money had been returned.
The mysterious expenditure that had troubled him weeks ago had been quietly repaid to the household accounts. The notation in the margin was in Eliza’s hand:repaid in full.
Personal loan. To a seamstress. For what purpose?
He set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temples where a headache had taken up permanent residence. The past three days had been maddening. Every time he tried to speak with Eliza, she vanished like smoke.
He had knocked on her bedchamber door and been told she was indisposed. He had waited in the breakfast room, and she had failed to appear. He had even tried cornering her in the library, only to arrive and find the room empty though her book lay open on the side table as if she had just been there.
She was avoiding him. That much was clear. What he did not understand was why.
They had kissed. It had been reckless and ill-advised and absolutely spectacular. And then she had run away as though he had committed some unforgivable offense.
Had he misread the moment so completely? She had kissed him back. He was certain of it. Her hands had fisted in his coat, her mouth had opened under his, and she had made a sound that still echoed in his memory at the most inconvenient times.
But perhaps he had been too forward. Perhaps he had frightened her. Perhaps she regretted the entire thing and now could not bear to look at him.
The thought made his chest tight.
He forced his attention back to the ledger. The money. The seamstress. The early morning walks where she disappeared through the gate and did not return for hours. The letter from W tucked into her book.
He had dismissed it as old history. A relic from before their marriage. But what if it was not? What if W was still in the picture? What if she was using household funds to pay for… what? Gifts? Accommodations? Secret meetings?
The thought made his stomach churn. He did not want to believe it. Eliza was not that sort of woman. She was honest and direct and had never shown any inclination toward deception.
But then, he had never shown any inclination toward obsessive jealousy, and here he was, staring at ledger entries and concocting wild theories about secret lovers.
He slammed the ledger shut and stood. This had to stop. The uncertainty, the avoidance, the endless speculation. He would go mad if it continued.
And most importantly, he needed to know why she had run. Why she had kissed him as though the world were ending and then fled as though she could not bear to stay in his presence.
