Chapter Fourteen

Eliza had long considered that one of the more baffling consequences of having an extraordinarily pretty face was a perplexing sort of invisibility. Not her bodily facade, no, never that. But beneath her appearance, the soul of her, was naught but a blank canvas to be painted in whatever colors the viewer happened to choose. Men were inevitably charmed to discover she was the embodiment of all their desires, perfectly suited to their specific tastes in every way. Lord Falkland, a suitor during her first Season, declared she was as sweetly demure as a white rose. Captain Sanderson found her vivaciousness invigorating. Eliza thought the truth was somewhere in between, but no one gave her opinion much thought.

But with Wessex, she had always been nakedly, unbearably seen. He had stood before her, offering up a book—her book—calmly discussing how it captured her essence. And oh, how her soul had thrilled at the recognition even while she trembled in fear.

Damn the man and his ability to see right through her.

No, not through her. Into her. Which was somehow infinitely worse, and yet at the same time utterly wonderful. The feeling wrapped around her like a fur cloak, and for just a moment she allowed herself to curl into its warmth.

What would Wessex say if he knew that the reason the book seemed so very like her was, in fact, because it was her? Oh, he would love that. She ached to tell him, to unburden her secret to a sympathetic ear, to witness his shocked glee at the discovery. The duke was a very different sort of man from her own dear brother, and where Sir John despised scandal and unwomanly behavior, Wessex found only delight—particularly when the scandal was made by a woman, rather than thrust upon her.

Unless, of course, that scandalous woman was his wife. She had not forgotten his mandate that the future Duchess of Wessex be above reproach. But Eliza had no intention of being anyone’s wife, much less his, and it would be such a relief to tell a friend. The rapture of creation, the miserable self-doubt—she had kept both locked tightly in her breast, and now she felt they might burst from her like Pandora’s open box.

She had not even told Alice, for she was certain Alice kept nothing from her husband. She suspected Riya knew, but Eliza would not confirm her suspicions, for that would put Riya in the untenable position of lying to Sir John, upon whose hospitality she depended. She couldn’t do that to her friend. But Wessex held his own counsel exceedingly well and was beholden to no one but himself.

It would feel good to unburden herself to a friend. Was Wessex that friend? Could he be trusted to keep her confidence, even after his marriage?

She took the book with her when she retired for the night, laying it carefully on the small table next to the bed. She sat for a moment, pondering, before she blew out the candle and fell into a troubled sleep.

When she awoke—much later than her usual pre-dawn hour—the sunlight was streaming through the draperies with a vengeance, dispersing her uncertainties with the shadows of the night. Had she had too much wine with dinner? She would not be so rash as to share her secrets with Wessex merely because he made her feel understood. The matter warranted deeper consideration, but she would not forget that the wisest course of action was undoubtedly to say nothing until Hyacinth Cottage was safely hers.

Thus newly resolved, she went down to breakfast cheerfully. It was nearly ten o’clock when she entered the breakfast room, and most of the guests were present, although a few still remained upstairs. Wessex was seated next to Lady Jane. Eliza smiled at them both and wished them good morning. Lady Jane nodded serenely in return. She rarely smiled, Eliza realized, except after a performance, and then her smile was so bright as to replace the sun.

Still, Eliza did not think the lady was entirely without humor. At least, she hoped not, for the duke’s sake. It had been but a day, yet he already showed a preference for the lovely songbird. If things kept on as they had begun, they would be betrothed by Sunday. Really, Eliza was very pleased about it, and that odd tumbly feeling in her stomach was merely hunger.

Her own smile firmly intact, she turned to the long buffet table, heavily laden with good things to eat. She helped herself to coddled eggs, ham, and toast with marmalade before taking a seat next to Lady Freesia.

“Where is Lady Abingdon?” she asked. “It is not like her to miss the morning.” Riya and Adelaide had likely only just awoken and would take another half an hour before they came downstairs, as both preferred long nights to early mornings. But Alice awoke with the sun, and Eliza had been looking forward to spending the morning with her friend.

“Oh, she breakfasted an hour ago with my brother. They went off for a morning ride just before you came down. I expect they will be back in an hour,” Lady Freesia told her.

Eliza swallowed her disappointment along with a spoonful of coddled egg, which wasn’t hard to do when the eggs were so wonderfully creamy. They were her favorite, and it was one of Wessex’s more endearing traits that he always insisted on the very best food being served. It was very hard to feel sorry for oneself when the marmalade was divine, the tea was hot, and the sun was shining.

“The day promises to be a fine one,” Lady Freesia remarked as she cut her ham into neat bites. “You have such a lovely park, Duke. A round or two of archery would be an entirely pleasant way to spend the morning, don’t you think?”

“Just as you wish. I should never refuse you an opportunity to demonstrate your skill, though my pride will suffer as a result.”

“I have no doubt that your prowess with a bow is unmatched, Your Grace,” Lord Devand protested. “Although you will have your work cut out for you, for I am called accomplished myself.”

Wessex gave him a bored look. “Archery holds little interest for me. Chess is my game, though I find it difficult to meet a worthy opponent. It is very well and good that my heart does not lie with the bow and arrow, for Lady Freesia would surely break it.”

Lord Devand turned his smile to Lady Freesia. “I must warn you, my lady, that my high moral standards will not allow me to throw a game, even a friendly one such as this. No doubt you are unaccustomed to such treatment, but rest assured that I will advise you where I can.”

Next to her, Mr. Eastwood glanced up from his breakfast, looked sharply from his sister to Lord Devand, and gave a disbelieving snort before returning his attention to his toast.

Lady Freesia tapped one elegant finger against the porcelain teacup, and for a moment Eliza worried that she meant to hurl the thing against the unfortunate Lord Devand’s head. But she only smiled sweetly. “I am an excellent shot, my lord, though I am but a woman,” she cooed. “But I shall be delighted to hear all your opinions on how I might improve.”

This dubious pronouncement was greeted with a snort from her brother. Eliza agreed with his assessment. The wonder was that Lord Devand did not realize the danger he was in.

She glanced around the table before her gaze quickly returned to Wessex, who was staring at his plate with great amusement. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. She knew that expression. The small quirk at the corner of his mouth. The gleam in his dark eyes. The slightly arched brow.

Just what was the duke planning now?