Silence.
“You first,” Morgan offered.
But Eliza shook her head. Whatever needed to be said, whatever might fix this or end it forever, she couldn’t say it here. Not in the hallway where servants might overhear. Not when she was barely holding herself together.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “Excuse me.”
She walked past him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to catch his familiar scent. Close enough to see his hand reach for her, then fall back to his side. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Because if she did, if she saw the same misery in his eyes that she felt in her heart, she’d break entirely. And she needed to stay whole. At least until she figured out how to survive loving a man who was too afraid to love her back.
Chapter Thirty-One
Eliza couldn’t spend another day staring at the walls of her chambers, drowning in misery. She dressed carefully, nothing too elaborate, nothing that suggested she was falling apart, and ordered the carriage brought round. She walked down the steps to the cobblestone street with her head held high.
“Where to, Your Grace?” the driver asked as she approached.
“The Welton Townhouse, if you please.”
The ride through London’s streets felt interminable. Eliza watched the city pass by the window, surprised at how much she had missed seeing vendors hawking their wares, children playing in the squares, couples walking arm in arm. The last image gave her a sharp sting of loneliness that settled deep into her chest.
Imogen’s face lit up when Eliza was shown into the drawing room. Then her expression shifted to concern.
“Eliza! What a lovely surprise. Though…” She rose quickly, crossing to take Eliza’s hands. “Well, I must be plain. You look exhausted. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“Eliza…”
“I just needed… I thought perhaps some company might?—”
“Aunt Eliza!”
Arthur and Philip came racing into the room, Miss Winslow following at a more sedate pace. The boys threw themselves at Eliza with their usual enthusiasm, and she couldn’t help but smile despite the ache in her chest. Their joy at seeing her was infectious.
“We’re building a fort!” Philip announced. “With blankets and chairs! Miss Winslow says we can’t use the expensive furniture, but that’s all right because?—”
“We are very creative,” Arthur finished proudly. “Come see! Please!”
They dragged her toward an elaborate arrangement of furniture and fabric. Eliza let herself be pulled along, grateful for the distraction.
“It’s magnificent,” she said, examining their handiwork. “A proper fortress.”
“You can be the queen!” Philip declared. “And we’ll be your knights, protecting you from dragons!”
The wordqueenmade something twist painfully in Eliza’s chest. She’d never be a queen. Wouldn’t even get to be a proper duchess, not in any meaningful way. Just a title without the partnership, the family, the love that should come with it.
“Your Grace?” Miss Winslow’s voice was gentle. “Are you quite all right?”
Eliza realized she’d gone still, staring at the blanket fort with tears threatening to spill over, as she was asked that question not once, but twice.
“Yes,” she managed. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“Boys,” Imogen said smoothly, “why don’t you show Miss Winslow that new book Uncle Ambrose bought you? I believe it’s in the library.”
“But we want to see Aunt Eliza!” The boys protested, but Helen shepherded them out with practiced efficiency, throwing Eliza aconcerned look as they departed. The moment the door closed, Eliza’s composure crumbled like a sandcastle caught in a wave.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her hands to her face. “I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t mean to intrude, to bring this to you, to be so?—”
“Hush.” Imogen guided her to the settee, sitting beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Tell me what’s happened.”
