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"It is good to see you," Sophia said softly, her hand resting lightly upon his upper arm. The warmth of her touch brought him abruptly back to the present.

"I have often wondered what Winworth would be like." Her gaze wandered slowly around the drawing room, taking in the lofty ceilings, the portraits and the afternoon light spilling through the windows. A wistful smile crossed her face.

"It has not disappointed."

He had written to her after the duel, after her father had bundled her into a carriage before he had even recovered enough to leave his bed. Arthur had written the first letter with trembling hands and the naïve certainty of a nineteen-year-old man who still believed love alone could overcome their challenges. The second had been longer, more desperate, explaining that the scar mattered little if only she would stand beside him. By the third, all dignity had deserted him entirely.

He had begged her to come to him. To come to Winworth.

His mother had made her position abundantly clear long before then, and he had never once expected her blessing, but at nineteen he had still possessed the reckless optimism of youth. Arthur had convinced himself that together they could weather any storm. Had Sophia arrived at Winworth in response to his letter, he truly believed he would have walked away from it all without so much as a backward glance, leaving behind the dukedom, the estate and every expectation that had been thrust upon his shoulders since childhood, content to begin again somewhere far away where neither of their families could find them.

Instead, each plea was left unanswered.

In the beginning, the morning the post arrived had stirred hope within him. Each unfamiliar carriage upon the drive had caused him to glance instinctively towards the windows. Each passing week had become a little harder to bear than the last, until eventually hope had given way to acceptance. Acceptance had hardened into the quiet conviction that she had received every letter and simply chosen not to answer.

And yet here she stood.

Standing in Winworth, at the threshold of the future they had once planned together before everything had unravelled, felt almost unbearable.

"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly, unable to disguise the confusion in his voice.

For if she had ignored his pleas all those years ago, why had she come now? He had known Sophia well enough to recognise the smile she offered him, and he knew at once that it was practised.

Polite.

Charming enough to deceive almost anyone who had met her only in passing.

But not him.

Not when he had once loved her so completely that he could distinguish between every shade of her happiness. The smile reached her lips exactly as it always had, yet it never reached her eyes. Those bright hazel eyes, once so expressive that he had never needed words to know what she was thinking, were clouded now with something altogether different.

Fear.

"Goodness... you always did prefer to get straight to the point, didn't you?" A faint laugh escaped her.

“My brutish knight in shining armour.” The old nickname threatened to stir memories he had spent years trying to bury. They belonged to another lifetime. Sophia let her hands fall from his arms and clasped them together before her, her fingers twisting anxiously around one another.

She was nervous. Arthur could not remember ever seeing her so unsure of herself.

"I'm in trouble, Arty..." The smile faded entirely now that she no longer had the strength to maintain it.

“And I need your help.” She searched his face as though looking for the young man she had once known—the one who had drawn his sword for her without a moment’s hesitation, who had willingly risked his life because the thought of losing her had seemed far worse than death itself.

"You are the only person who has ever tried to save me," Sophia said as her eyes glistened.

"I'm only hoping..." Her voice caught for the briefest of moments before she found it again. "...that this time you still can.” She tugged at his lapels.

Something shifted uncomfortably inside him. For years, he had forced himself to believe that she had ceased to return his affections, that she had not wanted him to save her. It had been easier that way. But standing before him now, frightened enough to ask for his help once again, stirred a part of him he had long believed buried—not love, for that had quietly slipped away somewhere between the passing years and the laughter of a dark-haired duchess who now occupied every corner of his heart, but guilt.

An old, familiar guilt that whispered he had failed her once already and ought not fail her again.

"What trouble are you in?" he asked quietly, his gaze searching her face with a fierce intensity.

She did not answer immediately. Instead, her fingers drifted slowly towards her abdomen, trembling almost imperceptibly before coming to rest against it, the gesture so instinctive, so protective, that understanding reached him before her words ever could.

"My husband is long dead," she said. "I have nowhere to go, and if this becomes known..." Her voice faltered before she forced herself onward. "...it will ruin me."

Slowly, almost fearfully, she lifted her eyes to meet his.