Page 49 of The Earl’s Marriage of Convenience

The way he had looked at her. Assessed her. Claimed her without right, without shame.

A flicker of heat moved through her—anger, clean and bright.

Not fear.

She pushed away from the door and crossed the room slowly, deliberately, as though each step required conscious effort. The familiar surroundings—shelves lined with books, the faint scent of paper and polish—should have been grounding.

Instead, they felt distant.

Unreal.

She reached the back of a chair and rested her hand against it, her grip tightening as her thoughts began to unravel.

She had lied—and it would either save her or ruin her.

Eliza was not entirely certain why she had spoken the falsehood to her father regarding Langshire. He knew nothing, and if he ever did, she was certain she could bid farewell to any proposal that might have been forthcoming. But she had wanted to strip him of leverage, to maneuver him into a position where he could not so easily manipulate her to his advantage. In that moment, she had seen no other option.

And so she had taken it.

Regret washed over her, even as she questioned whether any other path would have led to a different outcome. The pressure of it all felt suffocating. She gripped the back of a chair and closed her eyes, her fingers digging into the wood as she forced herself to breathe. She had to think. There had to be a way through this—something rational, something she could still control.

But another thought pressed in, more insistent than the rest.

As she replayed the encounter, she recognized it—the way her father had already begun to calculate, to strategize. He had come with intention. With a plan. And he had not expected to be thwarted.

That cold precision…

It sent a chill through her.

Because, in a way, she recognized it.

Not identical—no, not the same—but close enough to unsettle her.

Carver sought to use her to elevate himself.

Was she not doing something similar?

She sought Langshire’s name, his position, his protection. The difference, she told herself, lay in circumstance. Carver had created his ruin; she was merely trying to survive the consequences of his actions.

But did that absolve her?

She was not certain it did.

The thought settled heavily against her as she leaned into the chair, drawing in a tight breath and closing her eyes. She was grateful, at least, for this moment alone—this small reprieve where she did not have to maintain composure, where she could allow the storm within her to crest and pass before she gathered herself once more.

Even as the thought formed, she heard the door open softly behind her.

“I assure you, I am—” She faltered, taking a shaky breath. “At least, I will be well in a few minutes. You need not fret, though I appreciate the sentiment.”

She did not turn as she spoke. Instead, she slowly released her grip on the chair, her shoulders sinking slightly beneath the weight she had been holding.

When no answer came, she let out a quiet, self-conscious laugh. “I promise, it is only a weak moment. I shall be perfectly well shortly. He merely caught me off guard, and I did not like that.” Her eyes closed again. “I did not like that I saw pieces of myself in him.” Her voice softened. “I do not wish to imagine that we share any resemblance. But that is a foolish wish … and I should know better than to wish for what cannot be.”

A tear slipped free, and she brushed it away with a quick, almost impatient motion.

“Honestly,” she began, “Pere, have you nothing to say, or do you simply not believe—”

Her words cut off as she turned.