Chapter Two

“Pardon me, my lady.”

Eliza looked up from her writing in hazy confusion. It always took a moment to reorder her thoughts to reality. “Yes?”

Pierce bowed. “A letter from the Duke of Wessex.”

Ah. The cobwebs cleared and she returned fully, if reluctantly, to her Mayfair apartment. Here there was no dark and brooding hero, no gay ballroom, no snowstorm. There was only a bored duke—or his letter, at any rate.

She sighed and took the paper.

“What scheme does he propose this time?” Riya Mukherjee asked from her corner, putting aside her book.

“I am not sure. He says only my advice is required, and he requests I be at home tomorrow.” How odd. When it came to advice, the duke greatly preferred to give rather than receive. She frowned and reread the short missive, just to be sure.

“Shall we arrange to take a drive in the park instead?” Riya asked, her dark eyes sparkling roguishly.

Eliza laughed. “I do so enjoy disappointing His Grace.” But then what mischief would he get up to, if left to his own conscience? There was no end to the wickedness a man with unlimited funds and unlimited charm could wreak on the world, if he set his mind to it.

Wessex was far too handsome for his own good. Perhaps he would not be so rakish if his head was balding and not covered by thick, shiny sable. Perhaps he would be more inclined to use his brain for the betterment of mankind if he hadn’t an aquiline nose and square jaw to depend upon. Perhaps otherwise intelligent ladies would be less tempted to fall into his bed if his eyes did not remind them of chocolate, sweet and sinful.

She sighed again.

As though reading her mind—although, Eliza hoped, not entirely—Riya nodded. “It may be prudent to hear what His Grace has to say, while we can still correct his course of action.”

“Yes,” Eliza agreed absently. It must be done delicately, of course. Very likely Wessex sought her advice only in order to ignore it. He took as much pleasure in annoying her as she took in disappointing him.

She straightened her papers and put them aside. There would be no returning to her work now. Her thoughts were consumed by curiosity. What could the duke possibly need of her? If he merely wanted her opinion on which widow was ripe for seduction, or whether next season’s color of choice would be pale blush or deep violet, she would strangle him with his cravat.

Aggravating man, to leave her in suspense.

She sighed for the third time.

Riya gave a sympathetic cluck of her tongue and rose from her chair. The dark braid that hung to her waist swayed as she walked toward Eliza. “May I see the letter?” she asked.

Eliza handed it over without a qualm.

There was a quiet pause as Riya scanned the contents. Then, “I cannot read this. Is it in code?”

Eliza laughed. “No, although I am sure he would delight in the idea. You haven’t the practice, that’s all. His handwriting is dreadful and he has a terrible habit of abbreviating words that ought not be abbreviated. Pl is please, h is home, a is and, except when it is truly a.”

“You decipher his meaning so easily. He must have written to you many times, then. Is that quite proper?”

Eliza searched her friend’s face for judgment but found only gentle interest. “No, it is quite improper. If my parents were alive, or if my brother and his wife had not returned to the country, there would be consequences. But Aunt Mabel is mostly blind and half deaf, so that leaves only you to know.”

Riya frowned. “I have been derelict in my duties as your friend, then.”

“Nonsense. It is only the fact that he writes the letters at all that is improper. The letters themselves are entirely innocent, as you can see for yourself. Or,” she amended, “as you will see for yourself once you are used to his style. Look at it—he didn’t even seal it shut. Anyone might read it. He wouldn’t have done so if he meant it to be a love letter.”

There was mild skepticism in Riya’s dark eyes, but she nodded her agreement.

Eliza folded the letter and tucked it in the drawer with the others. It would be better to burn them all, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to destroy them. Despite her assurances to her friend, she knew her brother would feel differently on the matter. Eliza had barely tasted freedom; to lose it now would be a tragedy. Even the softest whisper of impropriety would result in her brother ordering her back to his home and strict guardianship.

Not that her brother was a terrible ogre—quite the opposite, for Sir John was kind, and she loved him—but she did not wish to live in the corners of someone else’s life. She had spent far too much time there already. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her father had not known what to do with a squalling infant, other than leave her care entirely to the nanny. Though her father had eventually remarried, his second wife had likewise died in childbirth, this time taking the babe with her.

Her father had spent the following years traveling a great deal, leaving Eliza and her brother with this relative or that. Her relatives had been kind, and she had been cared for, but always as an afterthought. When her father passed away two years ago, Sir John and his wife had opened their home to her. She was grateful and loved them both, but enough was enough.

She wanted a home of her own.

At present, she lived almost entirely independently with Riya, who was staying with Eliza for the winter while her brother traveled in Egypt. Sir John and Lady Benton had departed London for Hampshire a fortnight ago, upon learning that she was with child—for Lady Benton had a holy fear of London’s filthy air. Her brother had intended to take Eliza and Riya with him, but Eliza had convinced him it would be much better for them to stay in London, with Aunt Mabel serving as their chaperone. Sir John had reluctantly agreed, with the demand that their behavior and reputation remain above reproach.

He would not like to hear that she allowed Wessex this liberty, harmless though she knew it to be. It was the appearance of impropriety that mattered most of all.

She shrugged the doubt aside. It was only a letter! In six months’ time, on her twenty-second birthday, she would be free in truth. She had a sum of five thousand pounds from her mother, but more important, Hyacinth Cottage would be hers. John had promised to sign it over to her. It would be hers to live in and tend and just be. Together, the marriage portion and the cottage would be enough to live exactly as she wished. Her life would be her own at long last.

And—she glanced at the stack of pages she had pushed aside in favor of the duke’s letter—if her hard work continued to be rewarded, life would be perfect. She would want for nothing.

All she had to do was be very, very good.