32
Eliza had not spent a great deal of time in her late husband’s London house—the old earl, as did the new, preferred countryside isolation to city liveliness—but less than half an hour later she disembarked in the grandest square in all of London. As she stood in front of the grand, towering and terribly austere townhouse, Eliza was reminded of how inadequate she used to feel inside. For the second time that day, Eliza squared her shoulders and knocked. The expression that the footman made, upon recognizing his old mistress, approached the comical.
“My lady!” he gasped.
“Is Somerset at home?” Eliza demanded, walking into the entrance hall.
“He is hosting a breakfast party, m-my lady,” he stammered. “H-he has guests.”
“Wonderful! Inform him, will you, that I am here and desirous of having a moment of his time?”
The footman bowed and left, reappearing minutes later with Barns, the Somerset butler.
“Lady Somerset,” he said. “This is an unusual time for a visit.”
“And yet I’m sure we can cope,” Eliza said briskly, her voice, for one moment, sounding extraordinarily similar to her mother’s. “Please inform his lordship of my presence.”
Barns hesitated, left, then returned after only a few moments.
“His lordship thanks you for the visit, and begs that you return later, as he is currently entertaining guests.”
“You may inform his lordship that her ladyship will not return later, for she has urgent business to discuss now; in fact, her ladyship will very much go in to see him at breakfast if his lordship does not come out now,” Eliza said, her smile wide and insincere.
Barns looked at her and then—briefly—to Pardle at Eliza’s shoulder, as if hoping to find an ally there. Pardle returned his gaze with a basilisk stare.
“May I invite your ladyship to wait in the library, while I deliver the message?” Barns said, capitulating.
“You may,” Eliza said graciously. She left Pardle waiting in the hall. This was not a meeting she wished to be observed, even by her.
Only a few moments after Barns’s departure, the library door opened again and Somerset strode inside. Eliza had braced herself to feel something stir at the sight of him, but though her heart did beat faster, it was from anger rather than heartbreak, and this steadied her.
“Eliza!” he said. “I must ask you to return later, I am in the middle of hosting a breakfast party and—”
“How dare you?” Eliza interrupted him. “How dare you write to my father, to inform him of your plans, before you wrote to me! How dare you not deliver such news yourself, when you have been in London and must have known of my presence here, too—how dare you take my fortune from me? I assure you, my lord, I earned every penny of it.”
“How—”
He tried to interrupt her, angry, but she was in full flow.
“You seek to punish me for rejecting your suit. I understand. But is punishing me, is sentencing me in such a way—will that give you the satisfaction you seek?”
“It is—it is not about punishment!” he bit out angrily. “Though I would be within my rights to feel a little anger, it is not about that at all—you wrong me! The gall of you to accuse me of such a thing!”
“You castigated me once for a lack of spirit. Now your issue seems to be my excess of it,” Eliza said. “It seems I cannot please you, no matter what I do.”
He gritted his teeth. “Your fortune was given to you by my family, under conditions that you have flouted extraordinarily—to such a degree that I wonder that you show your face here!”
“How have I flouted it?”
“Only in every possible way you could, Eliza,” Somerset said. “Flirting with every unattached gentleman in London—visiting all the most insalubrious venues in London while in half-mourning—dancing with Melville while you were still wearing black.”
This at last brought Eliza up short.
“Who told you that?” she demanded.
“I see you do not deny it,” Somerset remarked bitterly. “You were seen, Eliza, not that you seemed to care a fig for that at the time! I warned you that you cannot live in a man’s pocket without setting tongues to wagging. Your reputation has been darkening by the day, and you were too busy mooning over Melville to care!”
“And I warned you,” Eliza said. “What I should do, what I should tell people, if you tried to take my fortune from me. How might the tongues wag, once they hear what the Selwyns were plotting to do, my lord?”
Somerset looked at her, suddenly still.
“Who will believe you?” he said quietly. “Eliza, you have hung proof of your affair with Melville in Somerset House for the world to see. Marking the portrait as ‘anonymous’ will not keep it a secret for long, mark my words. The rumor mill is already beginning to churn, and once the truth is known, no one will think any aspersions you cast at Lady Selwyn anything more than spite.”
Eliza stared at him. “How can you be so cruel?” she whispered.
“Contrary to what you may think of me, Eliza, I have not done this to punish you for rejecting my offer,” Somerset said heavily. “Your behavior has had very real consequences upon my family—upon me.”
“What consequences?”
He paused. The look in his eyes, as if he were working out how best to say it, as if he knew it was going to hurt her and even now wanted to avoid doing so . . . Eliza guessed what he was about to say before he said it.
“I have made an offer of marriage, my lady. And her parents are reluctant to accept while you denigrate the Somerset name—they are concerned, and rightly so, for the direction you might take the family.”
“You are to be married?” she asked, slightly short of breath. “It has been only three weeks!”
“I must marry someone, Eliza,” Somerset said, casting his arms up helplessly. “And if not you, then . . . She is kind, and sweet, and I hold a great deal of affection for her. And her parents will not allow my suit until your behavior is dealt with.”
“Who is she?”
He hesitated again. Eliza frowned.
“I will find out eventually,” she said. “You cannot expect to keep it a secret.”
“My lord?”
Eliza turned at the sound of a quiet, timid voice.
The identity of Somerset’s breakfast guests became suddenly, horribly clear.
“Miss Winkworth!” Somerset started.
“I could not help but hear,” Miss Winkworth said softly, her head peeking inside the room, one hand pressed against the wood of the door. “I was coming through the hall and you were speaking so very loudly. Good morning, Lady Somerset—I like your dress a great deal.”
“Thank you,” Eliza said automatically. It was the most she had ever heard the girl speak.
“Run along back to the dining room, now. I shall be in presently,” Somerset instructed her, as if she were a very small child. Miss Winkworth hesitated, her eyes traveling between them.
“Hurry back,” she whispered. “My mother is about to start critiquing my posture, I am sure of it.”
She dimpled a smile up at him before making an obedient retreat, and Somerset visibly melted.
Eliza stared at him, open-mouthed.
“You are marrying Miss Winkworth?” she asked, too confused to be upset. “How can that be?”
“You, of course, introduced us at your dinner party . . .” Somerset began, seeming painfully aware of the awkwardness of such a beginning. “And then my sister invited them to Annie’s ball, and we spoke a little, and danced at Almack’s that week, and since you . . . since we . . . We have become more acquainted.”
It was as traditional a courtship as any. As traditional as theirs had been. Except . . .
“Oliver, she is so young,” Eliza breathed.
He flushed.
“She is wise beyond her years,” he retorted. “She knows what she wants and . . . She is very precious to me already—in time, love will grow.”
It seemed that the appeal of the young and timid was a family trait. For a moment, standing there in his full morning regalia, in this house, his resemblance to his uncle was very apparent . . .
But then Eliza’s mind, which had very briefly paused, began to turn again.
“And Mrs. Winkworth said they cannot accept, unless you address my behavior?” she said slowly. “Because she hates me.”
“No, because they are worried for their daughter,” he argued.
“Let me assure you, that is not so,” Eliza said, with a bitter laugh. “You are the finest catch in England—of course Mrs. Winkworth is not going to reject your suit! She is manipulating you, to revenge herself upon me, for not writing her letters of introduction.”
“Revenge?” Somerset snorted. “You speak of her as if she is a villain from a melodrama!”
“She certainly seemed quite villainous,” Eliza retorted, “plotting a match between Winnie and Lord Arden.”
“Arden?” Somerset’s jaw dropped. “Surely she cannot have intended—”
“Oh, she did,” Eliza said. “She asked me specifically for an introduction, given he is related to your line. And when I suggested such a match might be unfair to her daughter, she flew into very high dudgeon.”
“Arden, though . . . Surely not even Mrs. Winkworth . . .” Somerset said, the note of approbation as he said this lady’s name making very clear his opinion.
“She is quite capable of it,” Eliza said. “You cannot tell me she has not been pursuing your title most assiduously?”
Somerset did not reply.
“Or that Miss Winkworth is not entirely terrified of her?”
“The sooner I have Winnie out of her claws the better,” Somerset muttered in agreement.
He eyed Eliza consideringly, hackles lowering.
“You did not tell me about Arden,” he said finally.
“You did not tell me you had a tendre for the girl,” Eliza said, raising her brows and having the satisfaction of seeing Somerset flush.
“Yes, well,” he said. “Just because you might have a point regarding Mrs. Winkworth—it does not make your behavior any more honorable. Do you mean to continue parading yourself around the city?”
“I have not decided yet,” Eliza said honestly.
She did not know much of anything about the future.
Somerset chuffed out a laugh.
“At least you are honest,” he said. “If you . . . modulate your behavior, perhaps I can see my way to pausing this process. But . . .” He looked at her. “Eliza, you must agree to close all contact with Melville. I can find it within myself to forgive much, but that I cannot abide. Do we have an agreement?”
Eliza ran her teeth across her bottom lip. It was the most conciliatory offer she was likely to receive from him. And had the previous night not proved that she and Melville had no future together, anyway? But yet . . . Was she really to allow any man to make such demands of her, anymore? Allow her life to be ordained, in perpetuity, by their high-handed judgments or capricious moods?
“No, we do not have an agreement, my lord,” Eliza said, gently.
It was foolish. It was reckless. It was necessary.
“I cannot allow what I want—or who I want—to be dictated to me,” she continued. “And if my fortune is the price I have to pay for such freedom, then I will pay it.”
Somerset gaped at her.
“Goodbye, then,” Eliza said, gathering up her skirts in her hands. She took one last look at him, one last long look. Part of her would always love him, she knew. They had been too much part of each other’s stories, for too long, for all that love to disappear. Their roots would always be a little tangled. But Eliza would have had to give up too much to be with him. And she could not do that anymore.
She walked toward the door. As she reached it, she paused.
“Be kind to her, Oliver,” she said, without turning. “She is very young, and who she is . . . may yet change.”