Page 9 of Duke of Fire
“Oh, it already has.” Lady Hartwell seized the latest gossip sheet, opened it with a flourish, and stabbed at a paragraph. “Ha!Listen to this:The Golden Rake Snared at Last! But Who is the Enchantress Who Felled the Marquess?”
Eliza’s mouth went dry.
Lady Hartwell read on, “Miss Eliza Hartwell, companion to the redoubtable Lady Hartwell, is a woman of little fortune and less family but sufficient beauty to have landed London’s most eligible—and uncatchable—marquess.” She slammed the paper down. “Well, they have that part correct at least.”
Eliza stared at her cup, the tea inside cooling rapidly. “I did not expect them to be so…” she trailed off.
“Creative?” Lady Hartwell suggested.
“Cruel.”
Lady Hartwell snorted. “It is the only trade in which mediocrity is rewarded and cleverness a liability.” She set the paper aside, met Eliza’s eyes. “Do not let them have it, child.”
Eliza nodded, jaw set.
A servant entered and cleared his throat with exquisite delicacy. “Your Ladyship, you have callers. The Duchess of Stone, the Duchess of Irondale, and… the Duchess of Icemere.”
Lady Hartwell’s eyebrows made a valiant climb toward her hairline. “The entire Vestiere sorority? Well, well. Tell them we are indisposed for fifteen minutes then admit them.”
The footman bowed and withdrew.
“So it begins.” Lady Hartwell regarded Eliza as if weighing her in the balance. “I am sure my nieces have a thousand questions for you.”
Eliza, who had never lost a staring contest in her life, met her gaze. “I am ready.”
The moment Eliza crossed the threshold of the drawing room, she knew she was outnumbered.
The triplets—April, May, and June—were the sort of women who could intimidate a cavalry regiment at fifty paces, and they did not believe in subtlety. April, the Duchess of Stone, was already in motion, crossing the rug with a squeal and a flurry of silk. May, Duchess of Irondale, hovered behind, arms open, eyes bright behind her spectacles. June, Duchess of Icemere, hung back, observing with the wary detachment of a scientist about to test a new reagent.
“Eliza!” April seized her hands, squeezing until Eliza’s rings bit into her knuckles. “Is it true? Did August truly propose? Or is it all a wild mistake? We’ve been hearing the most astonishing things and?—”
“I said she might prefer to breathe first, April,” May murmured, steering her sister toward the divan.
“I do not require air; I require information,” April replied, bouncing onto the settee and tugging Eliza down beside her. “Tell us everything! Was there a declaration? Was it romantic? Did you faint?”
Eliza managed, “Not quite,” before June’s low voice cut in.
“If our brother proposed, it was not by accident.” June set herself on the far end of the chaise, arms folded, posture unconsciously martial. “He is many things, but impulsive in the matter of marriage is not one of them.”
Lady Hartwell entered, moving like a duchess even in a housecoat, and took the chair nearest the fireplace. “If you mean to interrogate my niece, you will do so with decorum.”
April rolled her eyes. “She is family, Aunt Martha. One cannot be decorous with family or it defeats the purpose.”
May slipped in next to Eliza, her expression sympathetic and her voice pitched low. “If you wish, I can distract them for you. I have a wonderful new treatise on Roman architecture.”
Eliza almost smiled at that. “You are kind, but it’s quite all right.”
“I think it rather obvious what happened,” June said, gaze narrowed. “Someone saw the two of you together, and August’s sense of honor forced his hand.”
April gasped. “Were you caught in a compromising position? How scandalous!”
Eliza’s jaw tensed, but she did not deny it.
June nodded once, as if this confirmed a hypothesis. “He could have simply denied it, but that is not his way.”
“Nor is it yours,” Eliza said, meeting her eyes directly.
For the first time, June smiled—a thin, sardonic line. “Touché.”
