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"I do not believe that."
Arthur smiled sadly to himself; he would entertain any of Eliza’s questions without pretence tonight. It was the least he could do.
"No?" he asked.
"No." Her answer came without the slightest hesitation.
"I notice the things you do for me." She finally lifted one hand from where it rested against his chest and pointed across the room towards her dressing table. Resting upon it was a bouquet of pink roses and carnations. Freshly cut and bursting with colour.
Every week since their visit to the village market, a new arrangement had appeared in Eliza's chambers without fail. Crimson one week, then white; this week had been soft pink, each accompanied by a note written in Arthur's unmistakably neat hand.
Which colour is your favourite this week? Forgive me if the pink causes offence to blue.
Arthur heard her laugh from his own chambers the first time she had read the note.
"You walk slower when I am at your side, because you know I have shorter legs," Eliza said.
"You always wait until I have sat down before beginning dinner."
"You leave lamps burning, so I don't walk into furniture."
"You let me talk to Colonel Radnor even though I know you worry I will tire him." Each observation landed more heavily than the last.
"I think you're far more capable of love than you allow yourself to believe," she whispered.
He lowered his head and pressed another lingering kiss into her hair. He disagreed, but he would not argue with her tonight. Instead, he decided to move the conversation on gently.
"I must ask you something." His voice had become careful once more.
"When Malcolm had you against that window." The words caught in his throat and his stomach turned at the memory.
"...did he..."
He found he was the one who could no longer finish the question. Eliza's fingers tightened gently in the fabric of his shirt.
"No. He held my neck. And..." Her answer came quietly, and she took a slow breath.
She hesitated.
"...he forced his mouth against mine." The words were spoken as though the walls themselves ought never to hear them.
Arthur's entire body went rigid. His arm instinctively tightened around her before he consciously forced himself to relax. He had imagined the worst. Yet hearing the words from her own lips made the image etched in his memory infinitely more unbearable.
"He will never touch you again. You have my word,” he promised. The words were not enough for him, but no language could convey the depth of his regret that he had not reached her a single moment sooner.
Eliza did not reply. Long before either of them realised it, the steady rhythm of Arthur's heartbeat had become a lullaby. Her breathing gradually slowed, the tension that had held her body throughout the evening melted away until, at last, her fingers loosened their gentle hold upon his shirt and her head grew heavier against his chest.
She had fallen asleep.
Arthur looked down at her for a long while; with the lightest touch imaginable, he brushed another stray curl from her cheek.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the silence, so quietly that even had she been awake she could scarcely have heard him. The fire burned low, the room settling into darkness as the hours slipped unnoticed towards dawn, but Arthur did not sleep.
He remained exactly where he was, one arm wrapped securely around the Duchess, listening to every slow breath she drew.
Chapter 31
Eliza woke slowly to unfamiliar warmth.
