Falling for a Duke (Timeless Regency Collection Book 8) Page 11

  Mmmm. Perhaps a touch melodramatic, but not far off the mark. Regardless of what happened, Eliza intended go to her doom well primped.

  It was all any woman could ask.

  She and Charity had ridden the short distance into the village proper with the elderly Paulson brothers in their dogcart. Charity had instantly spotted her Mr. Thomas and his cousin and attached herself to them, shooting a grateful look at Eliza.

  For her part, Eliza had arrived with a clear plan.

  The end of the room opposite the door featured a raised dais platform. Typically, it was lined with chairs, which provided an excellent vantage point for matchmaking mammas to both watch their charges and gather new gossipy tidbits. Eliza intended to choose a chair against the wall, one that afforded a view of both the dance floor with Charity and Mr. Thomas, as well as a clean line of sight to the main entrance, allowing her to take evasive action should Liam deign to appear.

  Unfortunately, the crush of bodies instantly turned her careful plan into outright panic.

  Charity disappeared into the chock-full room with Mr. Thomas, Eliza’s chaperonage forgotten. Eliza considered turning around and walking home, but enough people had seen her arrive and it was too soon to plead a megrim without raising eyebrows.

  She managed to push her way through the crowd to the dais, only to find it equally crammed. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to stand on the raised platform, the better to see the duke et al. if he arrived. After much gentle pushing and a few well-placed elbows, Eliza managed to wedge herself in the back corner of the dais.

  She was certainly hidden back here, but she also couldn’t see a thing past the array of silk dresses, bobbing feathers, and fluttering fans in front of her. Every person on tiptoe scanning the room.

  Mrs. Young stood tall in the midst of them. The woman surely felt the drawbacks of her height most other days of the year, but in this particular situation, having a seven-inch advantage over the other ladies meant she could clearly see any comings and goings first.

  Naturally, Mrs. Finchley demanded minute-by-minute updates, her own head at the level of Mrs. Young’s sternum.

  “What now, Mrs. Young?” she asked for the twentieth time in the past five minutes.

  “Nothing yet, Mrs. Finchley. Just Mrs. Evans arriving with her four daughters. No . . . no, there are five daughters this evening. Heavens, she’s brought the youngest, too!”

  “Pardon? Little Lottie?” Mrs. Finchley looked simultaneously outraged and gleeful at the news.

  “Yes.”

  “She is but fifteen.”

  “Scandalous, I say.” Mrs. Young pursed her lips, still surveying the room. “What are modern morals coming to when a mere child can attend a ball—oh!” She paused, craning to see. “The door has opened again. . . . No one has passed through. . . . It remains open to the night . . .”

  Everyone leaned forward, waiting on baited breath.

  “Oooohhh!” Mrs. Finchley vigorously fanned herself. “I fear my nerves shall give out before this evening is over.”

  Eliza almost laughed at the scene. If only Robert were here. They would make merry with all the commotion the Duke of Chawton was causing.

  Her old Liam would blush to know the mere thoughts of his coming caused such consternation.

  She was quite sure Stranger Liam would not condescend to attend a lowly country assembly ball.

  No. Not Stranger Liam.

  Duke Liam.

  If he appeared, Duke Liam would offer the room a cold turned shoulder—nothing more.

  She ignored the burning in the back of her throat at the thought. She had mourned the loss of her old Liam years ago. No need to revive the pain. It was done. Gone.

  She had memories of Robert—memories of being loved, of being enough just as she was. That was all that mattered.

  “Well?” Another voice prompted Mrs. Young. “Any news?”

  The tall woman’s shoulders slumped. “’Tis only the vicar.”

  “Ah.” The gathered crowd all exhaled, deflating as one.

  “But . . . wait!” Mrs. Young held out a staying hand. As if any of the gathered ladies were going anywhere. “The door is yet open. The vicar has turned around. He is speaking to someone outside the door. Oh!”

  A beat.

  “What?” Mrs. Finchley patted Mrs. Young’s arm. “What has happened?”

  “Oh my!” was Mrs. Young’s reply. Her hand fluttered up to her throat.

  “Beatrice Young, you must tell us immediately!”

  Another pause.

  “He has come.” Mrs. Young clutched her friend’s gloved hand. “Mariah, he has come!”

  No!

  “He has come! Oh! Oh my!” Mrs. Finchley swayed, her eyes closing.

  No! Oh please, no!

  “Fetch the smelling salts. I fear she is going down,” a voice from the crowd warned.

  But Mrs. Finchley’s nerves were far too opportunistic to allow her to faint at a moment of such magnitude.

  The lady rallied. “Tell us all, Mrs. Young.”

  Eliza’s heart attempted to beat its way out of her chest. This could not be happening. It was her worst nightmare made real.

  “The Duke of Chawton has arrived with Mr. Forsythe and three other gentlemen.” A pause. “And no ladies!”

  That pronouncement alone sent a hush through the gathered women.

  No ladies. No competition. What a boon for them all.

  Eliza wrapped an arm around her stomach and fanned her burning face.

  “His Grace is now speaking with Sir John as Master of Ceremonies. Of course, he and his party shall be granted admission,” Mrs. Young continued. “Heavens! His Grace is every bit as handsome as the vicar said. His coat certainly was tailored by Mr. Weston himself. And I do believe those are gold buttons upon his waistcoat and a diamond pin in his cravat. Such elegance. How kind of him to condescend to join us.”

  Eliza fanned more vigorously.

  All would be well. He would come and be seen by one and all. She would shelter in her corner, all but invisible, until he left. He would never know she had been here. She had to believe that.

  But Fate would have none of it.

  For just as the thought flitted through her mind, Mrs. Young intoned: “Well! I say! It appears he has requested that the vicar make introductions. He is talking to everyone. And”—Mrs. Young strained to see better—“yes! He is coming this way.”

  “Oh! Oh!” Mrs. Finchley’s eyes rolled to the back of her head.

  “Catch her!”

  Several hands righted Mrs. Finchley, who made a remarkably rapid recovery. How could she greet a duke if she fainted?

  Eliza swallowed the hysterical laughter crawling up her throat.

  She truly felt a megrim coming on. Could she plead illness and push her way through the crowd? Could she reach the exit without Liam seeing her? Would he even realize it was her?

  Desperate to do something, Eliza stood up and carefully inched her way across the back of the dais, moving toward the opposite side of the room. But the going was too slow, and Eliza did not want to make a scene for fear of rousing his attention.

  A break in the gathered ladies afforded her a glimpse of the duke’s party speaking with Sir John Foxly. Eliza froze, brows instantly drawn down.

  Heavens! Was that her cousin Nicholas?

  She pursed her lips, leaning around an older couple to see better.

  It was Nicholas! The dark head turned her way could only be her cousin. The scoundrel. Had he led Liam to her? Uncle had assured her that Nicholas didn’t know her whereabouts. All Nicholas knew was that she had married. That was it.

  Liam and Nicholas had never been friends. Why were they traveling together now? Was this just another coincidence, or part of a grand, preconceived plan?

  Blast him.

  It had to be coincidence. Nicholas hadn’t called upon her, thank goodness. How she would have explained that to her nosy neighbors—

  The tall man standing next to N
icholas said something to her cousin, moving into profile—an impossibly familiar profile. Eliza’s heart stuttered to a stop.

  Oh.

  Liam.

  Her eyes fluttered closed, pain clogging her throat.

  Breathe. Breathe through it.

  She opened her eyes, instantly finding him again in the crowd.

  She had forgotten how very handsome he was with his straight nose and high cheekbones. Up close, she knew his eyes would be the blue of the ocean on a sunny day. His hair was darker than her memory—more brown now than sandy blond—and his skin tanner than she ever remembered seeing it. His shoulders were broader and obviously carried more muscle.

  He was no longer the bookish boy who preferred reading and philosophy over everything else. No. He was a soldier. A man who spent most days on a horse and who had seen unspeakable things. A commanding officer. A presence.

  For some reason, the sight increased that ache in her throat.

  Where had her Liam gone? Why had he changed in the end, after promising he never would? She did not recognize him in this aristocratic personage.

  Duke Liam, indeed.

  He had turned from Sir John and was now bowing to Mr. Walter Pelham, his back partially to her. Blinking rapidly, Eliza turned away before he could see her, pushing through the crowd to the edge of the dais.

  In the end, it did not matter why he had changed. He had. And she had the memories of Robert’s unfailing love to keep her warm.

  For now, she simply had to get away.

  She had nearly reached the opposite side when a hand snagged her elbow.

  “Mrs. Mail! Can you not believe our great fortune?” Mrs. Finchley’s excited voice rang in her ear. “You must be in alt to meet His Grace. Do you suppose he knew Sergeant Mail at Talavera?”

  Eliza bit her lip. Ah, Robert. How has it come to this?

  Eliza managed a weak smile. “I am sure His Grace knew a great many men at Talavera. To suppose he might have known my Robert—”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Finchley’s hold on her arm tightened, eyes lighting with gleeful intent. “We must ask him.”

  Twelve Years Earlier

  Eliza found him perched atop the ruined choir seats, sitting where they always did.

  As ever, his head was bent over a book, allowing her to study him without him seeing. The wind ruffled his sandy-blond hair and caused the enormous rose vine covering the wall beside him to shiver and quake. He was thin and gangly with the awkward elbows and knobby knees of most fourteen-year-old boys.

  He looked exactly like her Liam, save for the black band wrapped around his upper arm—a sign of mourning. That was new.

  She had not seen him in the two weeks since his mother died. A fortnight ago, Eliza had slipped away and darted across the fields to watch the funeral in the churchyard, hiding herself behind a large hedge.

  Liam had stood rigid and unblinking next to his father while the vicar prayed over a dark coffin. He had not cried, though he had bit his lip over and over. But then, she knew he could not cry. His father would whip him for showing such unaristocratic emotion in public.

  And so Eliza cried for him, soundlessly wiping her tears from her hiding place in the shrubbery.

  Since then, she had come to the abbey ruins every day, knowing eventually he would return here.

  She deliberately kicked some stones and snapped twigs as she approached the wall, giving him time to mentally adjust to her presence.

  He lifted his head.

  The devastation in those haunted blue eyes.

  He didn’t say anything.

  Neither did she.

  She climbed the wall and sat beside him, both of them staring over the rolling Yorkshire moors. Slowly, she leaned into him, pulling her legs underneath her skirts and up to her chest, sinking her head onto his shoulder.

  Wordlessly, he laced his fingers through hers, clutching her hand tightly in his.

  Liam was quite sure the entire population of Dorset was crammed into the Rothsbury guildhall.

  When the vicar had asked if he would attend the local assembly ball, it had seemed like an excellent place to casually encounter Eliza. He assumed it would be like an officer’s ball in Spain. He would show up, meet a few new people, blend into the woodwork, and assess the crowd for Eliza.

  He had not anticipated being a prized trophy proudly showcased to the entire village.

  He was unused to being seen as a title and rank first and a man second. As a captain in the army, very few had made obsequious gestures toward Captain William Trebor, Lord Strathclyde. Even once his father passed, Liam had moved among his military connections with ease.

  But now, every eye was upon him.

  Liam resisted the urge to tug on his waistcoat and loosen his strangling cravat. To temper his discomfort, he requested that the vicar introduce him to the local populace. He knew such things were generally not done. Surely his father would never have stooped to such common vulgarity as speaking with those of different classes, much less inviting an acquaintance with them.

  Liam, however, did not care.

  The men he had commanded came from all walks of life. They had been his brothers, and he had lived, fought, and watched them die beside him.

  People, in the end, were simply people.

  “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Walter Pelham, Your Grace?”

  Liam duly bowed the perfect amount—not too much, not too little—precisely as his tutors had drilled him as a child. He exchanged a few words with the couple and then moved on to the next grouping—Mrs. Evans and the five Miss Evanses, each younger than the last.

  Heaven help him.

  And so it continued around the room. Names and faces ran together. And still he did not see her.

  Was she not here? Blast it all!

  Nicholas slipped away, murmuring that he would keep his eyes out, too. Liam nodded his assent.

  He didn’t want to damage her reputation by deliberately asking about her. She would be here with her husband. Liam would have to greet the man, smile politely. He forced himself to move past the pain of that thought.

  He wanted answers. An explanation. Anything to allow him to close that chapter of his life and finally move forward.

  “Mrs. Finchley, how delightful to see you this evening,” the vicar said to a stout matron who had appeared at his side.

  Liam swung his head round at the vicar’s words, noting Mrs. Finchley. His eyes drifted out to the dancing couples beyond and then abruptly whipped back, his mind screaming at him to notice Mrs. Finchley’s companion.

  Everything happened slowly. Time moving through sticky honey. All the breath left him in a violent whoosh, like being knocked off horseback and thrown to the ground.

  Oh, Eliza.

  She met his gaze solemnly, brown eyes shuttered, revealing nothing. So utterly altered he had not immediately recognized her.

  His Eliza.

  And yet, so clearly not his Eliza.

  His Eliza was happiness and cheer. She was sunshine on the dreariest of days. She was laughter and wit and charisma that shone a thousand times brighter than the brightest star.

  But this woman? She was a distant memory of that Eliza. She held herself with rigid poise, gloved hands clasped in front of her. Her face was utterly motionless, devoid of expression. She was still lovely—petite and fey—but without an animated personality lighting her aspect, she appeared doll-like—an empty shell to heap meaning upon, not one that had once created his entire universe.

  “May I present Mrs. Thomas Finchley and Mrs. Robert Mail, Your Grace?” the good vicar was saying.

  Liam bowed out of sheer inborn habit. Eliza had chased every functional thought out of his head, which could be the only explanation for his next words.

  “Is Mr. Robert Mail not in attendance this evening?” he asked.

  It was the only question that interested him, quite frankly. He wanted to meet the man that Eliza Carter had married.

  The silence that met his qu
estion was deafening.

  Right.

  It had been an artless breach of etiquette. He should have inquired about the weather first, he supposed.

  Mrs. Finchley fluttered her hands in obvious distress, looking to the vicar for help. For his part, the vicar seemed at a loss for words. He turned to Mrs. Mail—Eliza—who managed a decidedly strained smile. Clearly something more was amiss.

  The vicar cleared his throat. “Sergeant Robert Mail was killed in action at Talavera, Your Grace. In the same battle where you so honorably distinguished yourself.”

  Mrs. Finchley pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “Mrs. Mail deeply mourned her husband and has been a great credit to our community here in Rothsbury.”

  “That is most true.” The vicar beamed, eager to push past the awkwardness. “We feel it our civic duty to look after all those who have been made widows and fatherless due to this awful strife with Bonaparte.”

  Their words drifted in and out of Liam’s frozen mind. The man had a name.

  Sergeant Robert Mail. Killed at Talavera.

  Eliza was a widow.

  But . . .

  Talavera was nearly five years ago. Liam had found out about her marriage just three months before the battle that had turned him into a household name. And to think, her husband had died there. She had only been married for a matter of months.

  All this time, she had been a widow. Free to write him. To begin a dialogue. To reach out to her childhood friend.

  Something.

  Anything.

  And she had done . . . nothing.

  He felt as if he had been shot. That moment when one knew something terrible had just happened, but the pain would take a few minutes to catch up.

  The agony of this wound would be excruciating.

  Up to this point, he had convinced himself that perhaps the events of five years ago had not entirely been her choice. She had been young. Perhaps someone had preyed upon her. Perhaps she had been the victim of some double-crossing scoundrel. Perhaps she was trapped in a terrible situation and needed help.

  But to know . . . she had been free and still had not chosen to talk with him—

  Ah.