Slowly, Eliza forced herself into the room. She perched on the edge of a settee, as far from Whitfield as she could manage. Her hands twisted in her lap.
“Lord Whitfield was just telling us about his estate in Derbyshire,” her father said, still with manic brightness. “Quite impressive, isn’t it?”
“Most impressive,” Lady Ramersby agreed, her smile fixed, as if carved from cold stone.
“It’s a beautiful property. Abigail loved it there.” Whitfield inclined his head, his voice perfectly modulated, tinged with just the right amount of wistfulness.
Eliza’s nails dug into her palms.
Liar.
Abigail had confided in her once that she hated the house in Derbyshire, hated how isolated it was, and that Whitfield must have known that.
Her father cleared his throat, phlegm jostling awkwardly. “Well, Eliza, Lord Whitfield has… Well, you see… that is, he has something he wishes to discuss with you,” he stuttered, then downed the amber in his glass.
“Discuss,” she repeated carefully, her eyes darting between her father and Abigail’s killer. “With me?”
Whitfield straightened his back, all the feigned nostalgia in his eyes now vanished, and the corner of his mouth tilted upwards.
“Yes, my dear,” her father replied, “He has done us the great honor of—of offering for your hand in marriage. And we have given him our blessing.”
“What?” The word came out barely audible from Eliza’s chapped lips.
The room tilted. The walls seemed to close in. Eliza’s stomach turned to ice.
Lord Ramersby’s smile was nervous now, wavering. “You are to be married in three days’ time, my dear,” her father continued, speaking faster. “Lord Whitfield has secured a special license. It will be a quiet ceremony, given the… well, the circumstances.”
Eliza looked from her father to her mother to Whitfield, waiting for someone to laugh, to tell her this was some cruel joke. No one did.
“Say something, Eliza,” her mother prompted, her stony smile tight.
Whitfield set down his brandy and leaned forward, his expression somber, sympathetic.
“I know this must come as a shock, Lady Eliza. I have suffered a terrible tragedy, as you well know. But I am not getting any younger, and…” He paused, wincing, as though the words pained him. “You were the only person who loved my dear wife as much as I did. We shared that love, and we share it still. I believe that together, we might find companionship in our shared grief. A partnership built on the memory of someone we both cherished.”
Bile rose in Eliza’s throat. The pretty words, the careful performance, it was all too obscene. Abigail wasn’t even cold in her grave, and this man sat in her parents’ drawing room, spinning tales of shared grief and companionship.
Eliza stood abruptly. “No.”
Her father blinked. Her mother inhaled sharply.
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Whitfield asked.
“I refuse.” Her voice was shaking but growing stronger. “I will not marry him.”
Lady Ramersby laughed then, a sharp, brittle sound that Eliza felt in her spine. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t be silly. You’re overwhelmed, that’s all. Sit back down. Be reasonable.” Her mother reached for her arm, but Eliza jerked away.
“I will never marry a monster like you,” Eliza said, looking directly at Whitfield and pointing a finger at him. “Never.”
Then, she turned and marched right out of the room, unable to tolerate being in the same room as that vile man.
Her mother’s voice followed her up the stairs as she yelled, “Eliza! Eliza, come back this instant!”
But Eliza didn’t stop until she reached her room. She slammed the door and leaned against it, gasping for breath as her lungs began to fail her.
Before long, footsteps thundered up the stairs. The door shuddered as someone pounded on it.
“Eliza! Open this door at once!” Lady Ramersby roared.
