She sighed. “Of course.”
Oh, this man.
He tried so hard to convince himself he did not care for the world around him and its desperate, needy inhabitants. But she knew better. She knew him. He was the most passionate, caring man of her acquaintance. The amused callousness that drove her mad was merely a way of keeping her at arm’s length.
Well, she wouldn’t have it. She wouldn’t sit here and listen to him play the role of a man who didn’t give a damn about anything, when she knew he was a man who cared very much about everything.
She stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I must—”
“And because I hated to think of any man, perhaps innocent, perhaps not, alone in a dark hell, uncertain of whether he would ever see the sun again. It seemed to me that the best way to not think of it was for it to end, so I set about making that happen. Will that satisfy you?”
She stopped, turned slowly to face him. “Yes.”
“Are you certain? There are so many other unpleasant things you might like me to consider. Shall I rend my garments for all the days their families waited and worried? Shall I cover my head with ashes for those that remain imprisoned?”
She tilted her chin. “That is quite unnecessary.”
“It is like this. I ask myself, what would my mother have done? What would my father have done? And then I do a little bit less. My father would have bargained with Sidmouth directly, no matter the cost. My mother would have visited the prisoners herself and been ill for days after. I would never do any of that. I play games, Eliza, because if I allow their misery to come too close, it will swallow me whole. The result is the same, the prisoners are freed, but that is not enough for you.”
“Sebastian,” she said softly.
“No.” There was a sharp ruthlessness in his voice. “You will not be satisfied until I am miserable from the weight of the world. Or dead in a ditch.”
Enough.
“Mimosa pudica,” she said.
He glared.
A wave of tenderness nearly knocked her to her knees. Beautiful, stubborn, darling man. And, oh, how she loved him. All of him.
She loved the vain, flippant Sebastian who brightened the world with his nonsense and made her laugh.
She loved the devoted Sebastian who schemed to make his friends happy.
And she loved the boy he carried inside him, who had lost his parents on the cusp of manhood and would forevermore curl in on himself when the world came too close to eating him.
I love you.
“Sebastian,” she said, and then stopped. The words were there, on the tip of her tongue, yet she hesitated. Something choked the words, pulling her back from the precipice.
Her secret.
She couldn’t declare her love, not like this, not with this thing between them. If only she had confided in him before they married. But then… They would never have married if he had known the truth. His duchess must be above reproach, he had said. What he would enjoy in a friend was impossible to accept in a wife.
“Eliza?” he asked hesitantly. “Why do you look at me like that?”
No, she couldn’t tell him she loved him, but she could give him something.
She forced herself to laugh gaily, forced her tone to airy lightness. “Do you know, I’ve had the oddest epiphany. I rather like you, Sebastian.”
It took a long moment for him to respond, and when he did, his voice was thick and odd. “You… You like me.”
“Quite a lot, actually.”
The words had barely left her tongue when she found herself whisked into his arms, somewhat roughly in his eagerness. She heard his harsh swallow against her ear, felt the rapid strikes of his breath against her cheek.
“You like me. Tell me more.” The demand was a silky, arrogant purr.
But the hand that stroked her jaw trembled.
She looped her arms around his waist, turned her face to nuzzle his neck. “I like you here…and here…and here.” She pressed kisses as she spoke, enjoying the way his pulse jolted with every touch of her lips.
His response was a sensual assault on her senses. One hand scooped the back of her head in complete disregard for her carefully coiffed locks, holding her firmly in place for his kiss. With his other hand he palmed her breast, squeezing gently. His growing erection pressed demandingly against her belly.
If he had hoped to distract her from a conversation that had grown too much for either of them, it worked brilliantly. She was stunned by her body’s rapid response to him. The desperate desire she felt for him was magnified by the unfamiliar tenderness in her heart. The feelings overwhelmed her, making her restless, needy. If she could not tell him in words how much she cared, then she could show him with her body.
She reached between their bodies for his trouser falls and freed him from the confining fabric. He was hot, silky steel in her hand. She stroked up and down, skimming her thumb over the satiny head. A bead of moisture welled beneath her touch as she moved in wide circles.
He ripped his mouth from hers with a groan. “Christ,” he muttered. “Eliza.”
She smiled, liking the sound of her name as something between a curse and a benediction.
But he would allow her torturous exploration no longer, and instead spun her in his arms so that her buttocks cupped his erection. “Like this,” he whispered against her neck, bending her slightly so she was forced to hold herself up by bracing against the desk.
Behind her, he lifted large armfuls of her skirt. He moved gently at first, rubbing the head of his cock up and down the seam of her sex. The slick pressure teased her most sensitive place and she arched, needing to be filled by him.
He understood. His hands grasped her hips and he drove himself inside.
Oh, God. Oh, God. She tilted her hips, pushing back against him, meeting his hard thrusts with thrusts of her own. Pleasure built, urgent and desperate. She was nearly there.
“I—” She didn’t know the words.
“Please,” he gasped.
His hips snapped in heady rhythm, his fingers dug into her hips, sending her straight over the edge. She cried his name as the surge of pleasure overwhelmed her, wave after wave of cresting joy.
He lost the rhythm, his movements turned frantic, and his teeth scraped against the sensitive nape of her neck. With a harsh cry he collapsed on top of her.
“Ooof,” she said as her breath left her, and she laughed.
“Eliza.” His voice sounded dreamy, muffled by her thick hair.
She almost didn’t hear his next words.
“I like you, too.”
Shame rolled over her in heavy waves. He liked her. He trusted her with his tender, scarred heart. And how did she repay his confidence? With deception and lies. She withheld her secrets, even while demanding he expose his.
She would have to tell him, before her secret drove a wedge in their marriage from which they could never recover. But how? She had hidden herself from him for so long that she no longer knew how to face the light.
Sebastian, for all his games and nonsense, had never told her a lie. She had yet to ask a question to which he refused an answer. But she had lied to him, from the moment she had agreed to be his wife. And she knew, with a gnawing fear in the pit of her belly, that the lie was something he could not, would not, easily dismiss. It would hurt him, and she couldn’t bear the thought of that.
How could she ever make him forgive her?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Something was wrong with his wife. It had begun with dinner, of which she ate very little, despite the tenderness of the beef and sweetness of the pudding. That in and of itself was cause for alarm, but when it was followed by going to bed alone, on claim of a headache, he began to fret.
Sebastian had first feared Eliza was ill, but since the following day she had announced she must
make several morning calls after her letter writing, he doubted she was suffering from poor health.
And yet…and yet.
Over the next several days, she spoke very little during their meals, and as their meals had somehow become the only time they spent in each other’s company, Sebastian was very unhappy. Her days had become busy with…something. Eliza only ever said that she was going “out” and never explained where “out” might be. She had become quiet and withdrawn. Knowing that she greatly valued her privacy, he tried to give her space to come to him, but she withdrew further. On occasion, he looked up to find her watching him with an odd, unhappy expression.
He could no longer deny it. Something was bothering his wife greatly, and that something might very well be him.
It had seemed to him, that day in the study when she had told him she liked him, that something important had happened. Their marriage had deepened somehow, forcing them into a realm of intimacy in which they were both babes in the wilderness. But he had not even had time to adjust to the new world before he had been immediately kicked out again, and the door slammed shut behind him.
He urged Ozymandias to pick up his pace. Of late, Sebastian had returned home only to find that his wife had departed after her morning writing session. He was determined that today she would take tea with him. She could not avoid him forever.
Yet, clearly she planned to, for there she was, exiting their home on Wimpole Street at a rapid clip.
How peculiar.
Peculiar because she was leaving from the back of the house, where she would not be visible to any of their neighbors, rather than the front, as befitted her station in life.
Peculiar because she was climbing into a hired hack, despite the fact that they had a very comfortable carriage with the Wessex coat of arms emblazoned boldly on the door.
Peculiar because she was wearing widow’s weeds, complete with a veil that obscured her hair and face, with capricious disregard for the fact that her husband was very much alive.
“Ozymandias,” he said thoughtfully. “I do believe my wife is up to something.”
Ozymandias farted, which Sebastian took as agreement.
The question was, what would he do about it?
What he ought to do was go inside the house, have a finger or two of whiskey to settle his nerves but not so much that he would be belligerently drunk, and await his wife’s return, upon which he might say, “My dear Lady Wessex, please explain why I saw you take a hired hack in widow’s garb.” And they would be very polite and civilized about the whole thing. Certainly, that was what a judicious, rational man would do.
What he wanted to do was wrench the door off its hinges, drag her from the carriage, strip those ridiculous clothes from her body, and remind her that her husband was not, in fact, dead. That would be such a satisfying outlet for the cumbersome feelings that had been building ever since he had taken her as wife. It would not, however, provide answers, for such behavior would not inspire her to be forthcoming. More likely, she would box his ears.
His thumb traced the braided leather of the reins. She did not want him to pry. She had said so outright, and while he had not promised he wouldn’t, he doubted she would see things that way. Likely, she would tell him to mind his own business.
Still. She was wearing widow’s weeds. That was extremely unsettling.
And she was alone, with neither maid nor footman to protect her.
That settled it. Her safety was paramount, and if keeping her safe also satisfied his curiosity, well, so be it. He nudged Ozymandias into a trot and followed the hack.
It headed northward, perplexing Sebastian even further. None of their friends lived in this direction. Perhaps she intended to do a bit of shopping on Oxford Street? But no, Eliza would have taken her maid with her at the very least, and more likely Alice and Adelaide, as well. She would certainly never embark on a shopping expedition alone, dressed as a widow, via a hired hack. The idea wasn’t merely unsafe, it was patently absurd.
But the hack continued on, bypassing the busy thoroughfare of Oxford Street, and turning on Tottenham Court Road. He frowned. What in God’s name was his wife—his duchess—doing here? It was not dangerous—he supposed he should be grateful that she hadn’t taken a sudden interest in exploring St. Giles or Covent Garden—but it was hardly the place for a duchess. The ton did not go here. The narrow homes and tidy offices did not belong to the aristocracy or gentry, but to doctors and lawyers and men of business.
The hack turned again, this time taking Charing Cross Road in the direction of the river. Suddenly, it all made sense. He could think of only one reason why Eliza and her perpetually ink-stained fingers would be in this part of London. But surely not. No, no, it was not…that. He shook his head in a vain attempt to dislodge the thought.
Yet, it was so obvious, so right, that it remained stubbornly in place.
The hours spent locked in her study writing letters. No one could possibly have such a need for correspondence, except lovers.
Her private account at the bank that she refused to explain. There were precious few ways for a lady to make money. A lady of her station and breeding—and, to be frank, lack of skills—could not simply accept a position as a dressmaker or scullery maid. Money came from one of the rare opportunities for a lady—or a lover.
And, most damning of all, her ridiculous costume, which was obviously meant to disguise her identity.
He was furious. How dare she!
He had always known she had a secret. That much, at least, she had deigned to share with him. But that it should be this! Oh, it was not to be borne. Had he not bared his soul to her? His childhood secrets, his dislike of tea, his very essence? And all the while she had kept this from him.
This!
He pressed his hand against his pocket, hard, until the bead within bruised his flesh. It hurt a good deal less than the harsh banging of his heart. His entire being ached with confusion. Why had she kept this from him? Why?
The hack ground to a halt, and Sebastian steered Ozymandias to the other side of the street, where they were well hidden behind a row of hired hacks. He held still, watching as she disappeared into one of the buildings, even though every fiber of his being was screaming to leap from Ozymandias’s back and tackle her right there on the cobblestones.
But of course he would not. Despite the fury raging in his blood, despite the pain throbbing in his heart, his excellent manners insisted that he wait patiently for his duchess to complete her business.
The tackling could wait.
Half an hour later, the door opened and Eliza emerged, a man at her side. She lowered that ridiculous veil over her face and they shook hands. Sebastian handed the reins to a street urchin along with a shilling and promised another pound if the boy did not abscond with his horse whilst he had a row with his wife. The boy, accustomed to the strange whims of men with coins to spare, tucked the shilling into his ragged clothing and nodded.
Stepping between the hacks, he strode purposefully toward her. The look of horror on her face as she saw his approach gave him a feeling of grim satisfaction. He felt horrified. It was only fair she feel the same.
“Sebastian!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“I would ask you the same thing, dear wife, but I fear I already know the answer.” He looked pointedly at the man.
“Sebastian,” she said, her voice low. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Oh, I think it is exactly what it looks like,” he said in scathing tones. “Why would a lady disguise herself as a widow, travel to this particular part of town taking no maid or footman with her, and meet with a man? I can think of only one reason.”
The man turned slightly pale but managed to straighten his spine despite his obvious trembling. “You don’t mean to accuse me—”
Sebastian sliced a hand through the air t
o silence him. “I accuse you of nothing. It is my wife I accuse. Well, Eliza?”
She stared at him with fear in her wide blue eyes.
“Or should I call you Lady Anonymous?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“I can explain,” Eliza said, although she wasn’t entirely sure she could.
Sebastian’s lips twisted. “No doubt, but you will not do so here, on a public street. One of us, at least, must have a care for our pride.”
Her cheeks heated at the sharp rebuke. He grasped her arm just above the elbow, his touch light. It would have been easy to shake herself free of him had she so desired. But she had no such desire to escape, and instead meekly followed where he led.
“It is too great a distance for you to walk, and I did not come by coach. There is no choice but for you to return the way you came.” He lifted a hand, signaling to a hack. He gave the address to the driver and explained he would follow on horseback. Then he helped her gently into her seat.
“Sebastian…” But what could she say? What could possibly make this better?
He shook his head. “At home.”
He shut the door quietly, although she would have forgiven him for slamming it closed. The chaise rolled forward with a crunch of wheels against stone. She listened for the clip-clop of Ozymandias, but the sound was swallowed by the hum and noise of the busy street.
She was alone with her thoughts. Useless things, spinning in panicked circles that grew increasingly desperate the closer they got to home. What was she to say to him? How could she make him understand?
She had lied to him, if only by omission. And not a small lie, either. This could ruin their standing in the ton. Everyone already believed they were characters in Lady Anonymous’s novels. If they found out it had been Eliza all along, she would never be invited anywhere again—and neither would her husband. He would hate that. He adored being adored. It would make him miserable to be shunned by the ton.
Oh, he would never forgive her for this!
When the chaise came to a halt, she still had no idea what she would say. The door opened, and Sebastian offered his hand, his expression passively inscrutable. She scanned his face anxiously, and found nothing to validate either fear or hope.
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