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"Mother..." Arthur's voice was quiet, but carried enough authority to silence the room.

The Dowager's smile faded. Even she knew better than to ignore that tone. A knot formed in Eliza's stomach as Mr Eapley's words returned to her. Did he not wish to be seen beside her?

Arthur's gaze found hers before her thoughts could wander any further.

"If it is a London debut you desire, Duchess..." His voice softened. "Then a London debut you shall have."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully.

"The only reason I caution mother against rushing such things is that society can be exceptionally cruel."

She turned to Laurence instead.

"And what do you think, Lord Benedict? You are the expert in all social matters."

Laurence swirled the wine in his glass before answering.

"I think if you wish to attend, then you absolutely should." A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. "No breathing member of the establishment would dare insult you to your face. Arthur has terrified most of them into good manners."

A ripple of amusement passed around the table.

"But," Laurence continued, the smile fading, "even His Grace cannot silence whispers once his back is turned."

He looked at her with unusual seriousness.

"And women..." He sighed. "Women can be the cruellest creatures in London. Men will challenge one another openly; women will smile warmly at you whilst sharpening the knife they intend to plunge into your back.”

Silence settled over the table once more. Eliza lowered her eyes to her untouched plate, carefully weighing everything she had heard.

“I think it would be a splendid idea”, she concluded, clasping her hands together as a look of resignation landed on her husband’s face.

"Oh, that is wonderful, my dear! I can help with all the preparations..." the Dowager declared enthusiastically, and the remainder of dinner passed in a pleasant blur as she launched into discussions of gowns, guest lists, musicians, and every imaginable detail of a London debut.

Hours later, Eliza had bathed, brushed out her hair, and changed into the sheerest nightgown she possessed before slipping through the adjoining door into Arthur's bedchamber.

Each evening she would find him exactly as she expected: propped against the pillows, a book long forgotten at his side, the fire burning low and bathing the room in a warm amber glow.

She knew he left it lit for her benefit. After all, during her first visit, she had nearly walked into an ottoman, a chair, and, very nearly, the fireplace itself.

As she approached the bed, his eyes lifted to meet hers. She had begun to recognise the language he spoke without words. His expressions were often restrained, almost impossible for anyone else to decipher, but this one had become unmistakable.

Hunger.

His eyes travelled over her. Did he notice the contours of her body beneath the thin linen? She rather hoped he did. Whatever he saw seemed to affect him, for his head fell back against the pillows and something unintelligible escaped beneath his breath as she climbed beneath the covers beside him.

"You are determined to ruin me," Arthur groaned.

"I beg your pardon?" said Eliza.

"I am attempting to remain a gentleman..." He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand across his face before his eyes met hers again.

"I fail to see the problem." She smiled victoriously.

"The problem," he replied, "is that every evening you make it increasingly difficult to remember why I must keep my hands to myself."

Her smile softened.

"Who decided you must?"