“Hmph,” the Duke emitted a noise that was part disbelief, part disdain.
“You don’t understand,” Lizzie struggled to explain, but gave up. “I shall not be able to bear it if my husband has another,” she finally admitted.
“You’re jealous?” the Duke seemed incredulous.
Jealousy was considered a base, unattractive emotion by his kind, but Lizzie couldn’t find the strength to care.
“So much that I’m afraid of myself,” Elizabeth whispered as her father’s hand holding a much smaller one flashed before her eyes.
Neither said anything for a while. Then Elizabeth spoke again.
“If you were courting a lady who’d had an unusual childhood, would you rather hear about it or should she keep it to herself?”
“Am I correct in assuming you are wondering how much of your…eccentricupbringing to reveal to the Corporal?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth breathed. It felt good to speak openly. “He sometimes asks about my childhood, and I need a man’s opinion on which degree of openness is appropriate.”
“You forget that I’m not a man, but a duke.”
Elizabeth frowned.
“You’re a man who is a duke. Forget the title for a moment.”
“You are mistaken, Miss Hawkins, I cannot set it aside, since the man and the title are one.”
“You are not helping me.”
“Give me a moment.”
Talbot closed his eyes, and his whole being seemed focused on the difficult task of imagining himself as a mere mortal, as daunting as it was.
“I would want to own every part of my wife, including all her stories,” he said into Elizabeth’s ear, and she shivered.
Confused, she lifted her heavy-lidded eyes and gazed up at him. He seemed stunned by his own confession, but quickly reverted to his ironic self.
“A lesser man, however, might not like it. Especially one with a country breeding. Remain clever, Miss Hawkins, and keep the darkest parts of yourself to yourself.”
“Is that what you plan on doing once you’re wed?” Elizabeth asked, truly curious.
“Sadly, our dance has come to an end, Miss Hawkins,” Talbot said as the music stopped.
He led her off the dance floor, towards her next partner, Earl Sinclair’s younger brother.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he said with a bow, and then was gone.
Both the dance and the conversation during it were pleasant and predictable. The younger Sinclair was very much like his older brother. Lizzie wondered whether he was mentally comparing her to Charlotte.
He led her to the refreshments afterwards, where she met Miss Woodhouse and Lady Fairchild.
“Amelia, Elinor,” Elizabeth greeted them quietly, still insecure about their recent agreement to address each other by their given names.
Mary had laughed at her excitement over such an (in her eyes) insignificant thing, but to Elizabeth, it had been a sign of true acceptance.
“Elizabeth,” Amelia said nervously, the red splotches of colour on her face and neck betraying her panic, “I just danced with Corporal Harding. Did you tell him about my comment about the cow sales?”
Elizabeth froze. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I did mention it to him during our dance. Are you upset with me?”
Elinor blinked as she looked between her two friends with worry creasing her brow.
