“It is.”
He stared.
Eliza continued.
“You are the one who asked me to remain in a position that depended entirely on your protection.”
“I believed—”
“I know what you believed.”
She swallowed.
“You believed being honorable was enough.”
Julian said nothing.
She looked at the trunk.
“So did I.”
He stepped closer again.
“This is not finished.”
“No.”
“Then do not leave.”
Eliza’s eyes burned.
“Where would I go?”
“Inside.”
“To what position?”
He stopped.
There.
That was the question.
Not love.
Not letters.
Position.
If Eliza walked back into Number Fourteen Cavendish Row, who was she?
Beatrice’s companion?
No longer necessary.
A guest?
Society would laugh.
A prospective duchess?
No one had said it aloud.
A woman under the duke’s protection?
Worse.
Eliza looked at him.
“You cannot ask me to remain in ambiguity because you dislike seeing my trunk on a carriage.”
Julian’s face changed.
Then he said quietly:
“You are right.”
That stopped her.
She had expected argument.
Julian looked toward the house.
Then at the gathering curiosity on the pavement.
“Will you give me ten minutes?”
“For what?”
“To make one thing unambiguous.”
Eliza stared.
“Julian.”
“Ten minutes.”
“You have spent three weeks losing letters.”
“I know.”
“You may not be reliable with time.”
He almost smiled.
Then did not.
“Five.”
The street clock struck noon.
One.
Two.
Three.
Eliza looked toward the carriage.
Then back.
“You have five.”
Julian entered the house.
The green door closed behind him.
Eliza stood on the pavement.
The driver asked:
“Should I unload?”
“No.”
“Should I leave it?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Excellent man.
No questions.
Inside Number Fourteen, Julian did not shout.
That surprised his mother.
Lady Augusta Vale was seated in the morning room as though she had expected him precisely at noon.
She was fifty-eight, still striking, silver threaded through dark hair, posture immaculate. She wore lavender silk and held a cup of tea she had not touched.
Beatrice sat opposite her.
Pale.
Furious.
“Julian.”
Augusta said.
“You are early.”
“I am late.”
His sister stood.
“Julian—”
“Did Mother send Eliza away?”
Beatrice looked toward Augusta.
The dowager duchess placed down her cup.
“Miss Hartwell’s position had become untenable.”
“Did you send her away?”
“Yes.”
“Did you intercept my letters?”
Beatrice’s face changed.
Augusta did not.
“I redirected inappropriate correspondence.”
Julian stared.