Your Grace, what a laugh. The words are foreign to my ears, especially from Mrs. Dawson’s lips.
“No, thank you,” Eliza replied. “This is… this is perfect.”
Mrs. Dawson curtsied with a raised eyebrow and departed, leaving Eliza alone in her new chambers.
She moved to the window, looking out at the sea. The waves rolled in steady rhythm, eternal and unchanging. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, was the life she’d left behind. Her parents. Whitfield. The scandal. But here, here she was safe. A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in,” she called.
A young maid entered, carrying linens and what looked like bathing supplies. She was perhaps eighteen, with a friendly face and bright eyes. She was new and Eliza took to her countenance instantly.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying. “I’m Carrie. I’ve been assigned as your lady’s maid. Mrs. Dawson thought you might like to bathe before dinner?”
A bath. God, yes.
She still felt like she was wearing the accumulated stress of the past three days on her skin.
“That would be wonderful, Carrie. Thank you.”
“Right away, Your Grace.”
As Carrie moved about the room, the air began to change, growing heavy and sweet with the scent of dried lemon verbena and sandalwood. The young maid worked, stoking the hearthuntil the dressing room glowed with a flickering amber light that chased the evening chill into the corners.
Then came the rhythmic, echoing slosh of steaming water. Carrie poured bucket after bucket into the heavy copper tub, the rising vapor curling into thick, lazy plumes that seemed to catch the firelight.
To Eliza, the steam felt like a physical invitation. Even before she touched the water, the invisible grit of her anxieties began to soften.
When she finally stepped into the tub, the heat was a welcome shock. It felt as though the water was a living thing, clinging to her like a second skin and coaxing her shoulders to finally drop from around her ears. The world outside the heavy oak door fell away, replaced by the gentle lap of water against metal and the soft, comforting crackle of the fire.
For the first time since the journey began, Eliza closed her eyes and simply breathed.
Two hours later, Eliza stood in front of the mirror in her chambers, barely recognizing herself.
The dress was simple but elegant, a deep emerald silk that brought out the hazel in her eyes and reminded her of Morgan’s. Carrie had styled her hair in a loose arrangement that was farmore flattering than the severe bun she’d worn as a maid. She looked like a lady again.
No. Not a lady. A duchess.
A knock at the door. “Your Grace? His Grace is waiting in the dining room.”
Eliza took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and nodded to Carrie. “Thank you. I’m ready.”
She descended the stairs with as much grace as she could muster, her heart pounding like a timpanist against her ribs. The dining room was smaller than she’d expected. It was intimate, with a table set for two rather than the massive formal table that could seat thirty. Morgan stood when she entered, and Eliza felt her breath catch. He’d changed as well, into a deep blue coat that complemented his dark hair and emerald eyes.
He looks… so handsome. Devastatingly so.
“Eliza,” he said, his voice warm as cognac. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She felt her cheeks heat. “You look… very well yourself.”
He smiled, a genuine smile that transformed his entire face, and moved to pull out her chair. “Shall we?”
The first course was a delicate soup, savory and perfectly seasoned vichyssoise. Eliza ate mechanically, hyperaware of Morgan sitting across from her. Of the silence stretching between them. Of the fact that they were married now, and she had no idea what that actually meant. That she was no long a servant, but a duchess.
“You’re nervous,” Morgan observed.
Eliza nearly dropped her spoon. “I am not… well, yes. I suppose I am.”
“So am I.”
