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She sat in the very centre of the bed, her knees drawn against her chest, the blankets wrapped around her as though they alone could keep the world at bay. He crossed the room without haste, unwilling to startle her further, and stopped at the foot of the bed.

Only then did he properly see her face. Her cheeks were flushed.

Her eyes were swollen and rimmed with red, fresh tears still clinging to the dark lashes that framed them. He knew how to organise an estate. He knew how to lead cavalry through musket fire. He had no earthly idea how to soothe a woman who had been reduced to tears.

"Oh, my dear girl..." The words escaped him before he had thought to speak them. He moved carefully onto the edge of the bed, leaving enough distance that she would never feel crowded, his body angled towards hers.

She watched him silently. Her chin never left her knees, and for several long moments neither of them spoke.

Then, so quietly he almost thought he had imagined it, she whispered,

"Do you think I'm plain?"

Arthur stared at her. The question struck him with such force that for a moment he could only blink.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"That man..." Her voice trembled.

"He said such horrible, horrible things."

She swallowed, lowering her eyes.

"He said you searched the county for a wife who was plain or positively ugly." Her voice cracked on the final words.

"Which am I to you, Arthur?" Fresh tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them.

Arthur felt his hands clench instinctively against his thighs. He wanted to reach for her. To brush those tears away. To gather her into his arms until he dismissed every word Malcolm had spoken. Instead, he forced himself to remain exactly where he was. He did not know how much Malcolm had taken from her this evening, and he did not want to cause her further torment.

"Before we continue this conversation..." His voice had become almost impossibly gentle.

"...I want very much to hold you." His eyes searched hers, waiting.

"But only if you will permit me."

He folded both hands together in his lap, making no attempt to move closer.

"If the answer is no, then I shall remain as I am." He would sooner spend the entire night sitting at the edge of her bed than risk becoming another touch she had not chosen, but he caught the smallest of nods.

It was enough. Arthur rose without hesitation; rather than gathering her immediately into his arms, he first settled beside her atop the covers, drawing the pillows higher against the carved headboard before lowering himself onto his side so that he faced her completely.

For a moment he waited. Then, slowly, Eliza mirrored him.

Soon they lay only inches apart, each resting upon one elbow, their faces level, the firelight dancing softly across her tear-stained cheeks as silence settled comfortably between them.

"You are neither plain nor are you ugly," he said quietly.

His voice was steady now, though a little louder than a whisper.

"I do not think there has been a single morning since our marriage that I have not found myself watching your poor ladies' maids wage war with your hair."

The faintest smile lingered across his lips.

"It never loses." His eyes drifted to one dark curl that had escaped once again and rested untidily across her cheek.

"And I rather hope it never does." With infinite care, he brushed it gently behind her ear.

"You have the most extraordinary eyes I have ever seen."