Done here, for now at least, he spun on his heels. He took the hall like a man out of Bedlam and made a bee-line for his pantry. He grabbed the knob, thrust open the door and slammed it shut behind him.
He left a candle to hand for just such occasions when he needed solitude. But he did not light it today. This wine cellar was his refuge. And he needed the darkness to calm his smarting eyes…and his weary soul.
He squeezed his eyes shut. And inhaled deeply.
Once.Steady, man.
Twice.Ah….
Hell with this.
Here he had his own personal bottle of brandy.And right now, he needed some relief.
He poured…liberally.
And drank, by God.
Then filled his glass again.
She did not leave him.
He snorted. Drank more.
But he’d known since the day she’d brought him his first puppy that he loved her. They had trained that dog to do everything. Open the stable doors. Play ball. Carry home the fish they’d caught in the river.
How did a man forget the one person who had asked him his every secret? Who knew his every desire? How did he deny the one woman who had encouraged him to study Shakespeare, not the Bible? Who’d argued with him to pursue mathematics, not the Church? Who could guess what he’d done to serve his country during the wars was not wear a uniform, but create and decode cyphers and choose the agents who would run the secrets home?
He put down his empty glass.
Shook his head.
No.
He could not lie to himself.
He loved her.
Chapter 4
Eliza rose early, despite playing cards well into the morning. Gambling had never been a favorite sport of hers. She preferred more strenuous exercises of the mind. Training her spaniel to beg and roll over. Hitting the bullseye of her archery target. And now at this party, finding ways to stay in sight of Octo as he flew from room to room, guest to guest, supervising, coordinating…observing her between duties.
She grinned as she sailed down to the breakfast room. Oh, the joy of it all, when she saw that she was first and Octo stood in attendance.
She pursed her lips. She knew he liked her lips. Ever since he’d kissed her when she was seventeen, he’d found her mouth the most fascinating feature on her person.
“Good morning, my darling,” she whispered as she swept past him and by her proximity, implied that he should be best to pull out her chair for her, not his footman.
He said nothing. But as he bent to accommodate her, he gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Tea will do, my good man,” she said to him for benefit of the footman. “And you may serve me from the sideboard.” He knew what she liked. Bacon, one egg, a spoonful of roasted potatoes. No toast. And him.
“Thank you,” she told him when he returned and presented the plate full of all her favorites and tomato, greens, even some mysterious vegetable. Hmm. Irritating her, was he?
Others joined her and continued conversation with him was impossible. Very well. She joined in the conversation. Did she have a view on poor Napoleon’s retirement to that horrid island in the middle of nowhere? Was she in favor of sapphires or emeralds as a proper Christmas gift to a lady upon the occasion of the birth of her firstborn? Was she pleased with her lady’s maid? It was so very difficult to hire and keep worthy servants these this days.
She participated while she concentrated on Octo. But the conversation was so very boring. She smiled at her next thought: Might she please outlast the simplicity of some people’s conversations by filing her nails with the butter fork?
Her gaze drifted to Octo. Resplendent in his navy uniform. Erect, perfect to the last fold of his cravat, the line of his coat, the height of his white gloves over his large long-fingered hands. This party was to last so many days that she’d find a way to lure him to put those hands on her. She must.
