Chapter Six

Eliza entered the drawing room with the strange feeling that she was entering a garden in bloom. The carpet underfoot was the pale green of springtime grass, and the sofas and chairs were all richly embroidered with pink, red, and yellow roses. One wall was entirely windows; the facing wall was entirely ivy, so thick and plush that it seemed rooted in the wall itself. On a third wall the ivy arched in an elegant bower above a tree nearly the height of a full-grown man. Eliza stepped closer to investigate but was waylaid by her friends.

“Eliza!” Alice greeted her with outstretched arms.

“Alice! It has been too long.”

They clasped hands, beaming at each other. Despite that Alice currently resided in London with her husband, Eliza had not seen much of her in the last two months. Lord Abingdon was not yet seated in the House of Lords; however, he was often in London to garner support for bills and causes. Of late he had joined with three other lords of similar convictions to find candidates for the Commons. Thus Alice had been much engaged with serving as hostess at teas and dinners.

“Sit down, darlings,” Adelaide said. “Alice will pour the tea and we’ll have a nice chat. Riya, won’t you sit next to me here? There is plenty of room on the sofa, if Lady Freesia will scoot just a little.”

Lady Freesia smiled and made space on the striped sofa. Riya sat between them, and Eliza made herself comfortable on the green velvet settee next to Alice.

“One sugar and a dash of milk?” Alice asked as she prepared Eliza’s dish.

Eliza nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“See how elegantly she pours,” Adelaide said, her tone teasing. “My sister has had to spend a great many hours thusly. She is much improved from six weeks ago, when she spilled tea all over Lady Trenton.”

Alice stuck her tongue out at her twin. “If Lady Trenton does not wish to be doused in tea, then she must learn to choose her words more carefully. It is so difficult to keep one’s hands steady when one is shaking with rage.” She smiled serenely. “But see now, I am in excellent humor, and there is your tea, my dear, with not a single drop spilled. Riya, how do you take your tea?”

“With a splash of goodwill and two of milk,” Riya said, her dark eyes sparkling with humor. “And might I say how exceptionally lovely you look today?”

Alice threw back her head in laughter. “You needn’t worry over spilled tea, for you are never less than delightful.”

“What did Lady Trenton say that put you in a temper, Alice?” Eliza asked.

“Ah.” Alice lifted a small shoulder. “Abingdon hopes to have his brother seated in the Commons. Lady Trenton was enthusiastic and believed her husband would support the bid, for everyone loves a reformed rogue, you understand. But to show the true depth of his reformation, he must name the mother of his child born out of wedlock so that she may be properly scolded.”

Eliza glanced at Adelaide—the erstwhile unwed mother, now the respectable Mrs. Eastwood, although very few knew the secret. “Well, that certainly explains the spilled tea,” she murmured over the rim of her dish.

“I have no tolerance for such women,” Alice declared. “For the life of me, I cannot understand why any woman would be so eager to rip her sisters to shreds. One expects such nonsense from men, but a woman really ought to be better than that.”

“She is miserable with her lot in life, that is all,” Eliza said. “It is intolerable to her that a woman might step out of line and yet still be happy. Such a woman must be brought to heel so that she might be miserable with the rest of her kind.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Alice protested. “If Lady Trenton is miserable then I shall feel remorse over the spilled tea, and I do so hate to feel remorse for my behavior. It is very uncomfortable to feel in the wrong. Fortunately, Abingdon thinks I am entirely in the right, darling husband that he is, and the tea was no less than she deserved.”

“Does this mean Mr. Eastwood will attempt to take a Commons seat, despite Lady Trenton?” Riya asked.

“It is likely he will try,” Adelaide said. “He is unbearable when he is not put to use, and we are loath for him to return to the army.”

“But his success is uncertain, which necessitates our return to London after this house party.” Alice pouted over her tea. She much preferred the country to life in Town.

“Riya and I will be there to keep you company,” Eliza said comfortingly.

“That is true.” Alice brightened. “And I have heard rumors that we will have another Lady Anonymous novel to entertain us before spring. I am not overly fond of novels, you know, but I do enjoy hers immensely.”

“Oh, I do hope so!” Adelaide said, clapping her hands. “I have read A Woman’s Place twice already.”

Eliza gave her tea a brisk stir it did not need. She was never entirely comfortable when the subject of Lady Anonymous was raised. She knew herself to be a terrible liar; her guilt must be as plain as the nose on her face. When Lady Anonymous was praised, she felt the unaccountable urge to protest. Yet censure stabbed like a knife wound, and it took all her fortitude to refrain from returning the blow.

She was spared further discourse on the merits of Lady Anonymous by the arrival of Wessex. He greeted the ladies and sauntered closer to the settee upon which Eliza sat. She shifted, spreading her wool skirt to take up more space. Alice gave her an amused glance before likewise arranging her own skirt. There was scarcely an inch between them now; certainly there was no room for a duke. But he only arched an eyebrow and changed direction to the fern gracing a table across from her.

“About whom are we gossiping?” the duke asked. “Do tell.”

“My husband and his campaign for a Commons seat,” Adelaide said. “Have you anything to say on the matter?”

“Politics!” He gave her an aghast look. “No, indeed.”

He reached a finger toward the fern—a plump, silky thing that spilled over its pot in a delightful tangle of greenery—and stroked the underside of a tendril in a languid glide. Eliza, watching him, felt her neck tingle in response, as though it was her nape the duke touched rather than the fern.

“It is of no interest to you who fills the seat?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she had intended. “Whomever has the seat will vote on bills that affect every man, woman, and child—most of whom have no say in the matter, at all. That does not concern you?”

“Should it?” he asked.

Eliza drew in a long, deep breath—long enough and deep enough to give him a very large piece of her mind. But then she paused. The nonchalance in his voice was too studied, the glimmer in his eye too hopeful. Oh! He was baiting her again, the insufferable man-child. She gave an indignant huff and deliberately turned away from him.

“Well,” the duke said after a moment’s silence, “though I have no interest in politics, of course Eastwood has my support. Anything for you, Mrs. Eastwood. My services are at your command.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Adelaide said. “My husband, ah, is very grateful to you.”

Alice coughed, and Eliza hid her grin behind her teacup. The last thing Mr. Eastwood would ever feel toward Wessex was gratitude.

Wessex smiled, unperturbed by the lie. “Indeed.”

He bent closer to the fern, so close that his mouth nearly brushed the glossy tendrils. His lips moved, whispering something indecipherable, though Eliza strained to catch the words. The fern seemed almost to perk up in response. Eliza gave the plant a disapproving frown. The duke could charm a widow from her weeds, but a plant ought to be immune to such things.

“I noticed an orchard as we approached the house,” Riya said. “Is it too much to hope that the apples are still good?”

“They are not yet rotted,” Wessex said, before once again whispering to the fern.

Eliza stared. Were her eyes deceiving her? Or did the fern appear happier from the duke’s attention? A fern couldn’t be happy, could it? She stood and sidled closer, listening.

“Splendid!” Lady Freesia said. “An afternoon in the orchard will be just the thing after a morning of travel.”

Eliza was close enough now to hear the low murmur of the duke’s voice, as sweetly dark as molasses.

“See, now. Am I not proved correct?” he whispered to the fern. “She cannot resist. She does not wish me to sit next to her, oh no, yet she cannot stay away.”

Eliza drew to a halt and glared. “You did this on purpose.”

He blinked his large eyes at her, looking as dumbly innocent as a cow. “What? What did I do?”

“You…” She hesitated, remembering they were not alone, and lowered her voice. “You made me come to you.”

“I merely stood in a corner and conversed with a plant.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor Miss Benton. When will you realize that you find me utterly irresistible?”

“When pigs sprout wings and take to the sky, which, coincidentally, is when it will be true.”

He grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

So she was. How galling. “I was merely curious as to why you were making love to a fern instead of finding your future wife. Unless a fern is the best you can do?”

Before he could reply, she turned her back on him. “An afternoon in the orchard would be lovely. Shall we gather the other guests?”

She marched from the room, the duke’s low, seductive laugh following her out.