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Only then did Arthur pause. The afternoon sun had shifted, causing light to spill through the tall windows that caught the crystal whisky glass resting exactly where it always had, on his desk.

Sophia's gift.

For years it had remained there, untouched except by his own hand, less from affection than from habit. It had become a relic of an interrupted life. His fingers closed around it.

He stared at the familiar engraving for only a heartbeat and then he hurled it across the room.

The crystal struck the far bookshelf with a deafening crack before exploding into hundreds of glittering fragments that scattered across the polished floor, the sound echoing through the office long after the last shard had settled into silence.

Arthur remained exactly where he stood, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths, his hand still half-clenched from the force of the throw.

His gaze lingered upon the glittering fragments strewn across the floor. He felt much the same.

Chapter 38

Vinnie drew an ivory comb slowly through Eliza’s hair, separating the dark curls into sections before weaving them into a braid. On any other morning, Eliza would have watched with fascination, asking questions about each ribbon and pin, wondering aloud whether her husband might favour one style over another.

This morning, she watched herself in the mirror as nothing remarkable stared back at her. The same dark curls, now neatly braided. The same green eyes, now framed by shadows that no amount of sleep seemed capable of lifting.

The image of the Duke and Sophia plagued her mind once more: the quiet affection they had exchanged, the unmistakable passion of something they had both once believed lost. The memories alone had proven enough to keep Eliza firmly within the sanctuary of her own chamber over the last three days. Meals arrived upon trays instead, carried upstairs by Vinnie or Mrs Clapton, both of whom politely pretended not to notice the change in routine.

Unfortunately, she could not remain hidden today. By her count, it was Lord Benedict's final evening at Winworth before his return to London. A fresh ache settled within her chest. From the moment she had first stepped through Winworth’s doors, Laurence had done everything within his power to make her feel welcome. He had teased the Duke mercilessly whenever he deserved it, distracted her when she had been lonely, and encouraged her when she had doubted herself.

She had come to care for Laurence, and she believed he cared for her. Or perhaps she merely hoped he did. She was no longer entirely certain what affection looked like, but she knew Laurence’s absence would be momentous, and without him, she would be left with no allies of standing beneath Winworth’s roof.

Still, she would host Laurence's final dinner before his departure.

She would smile.

She would thank him for his friendship.

And then she would excuse herself before the evening had the opportunity to become unbearable.

Vinnie had found her crumpled on the floor only moments after the Duke had left her to the wreckage of their dreadful conversation. Her knees had given way beneath her as the few short steps to her bed seemed beyond her capabilities. From that moment onwards, her lady’s maid had scarcely left her side, disappearing only when the briefest necessities demanded it. The two of them had cried together until there were no tears left to shed; and they shared stories long into the night whenever silence became too painful to endure, finding comfort in each other's presence.

Eliza had never been more grateful for a friend. Without her, she would have drifted into an abyss of loneliness. She rested her chin lightly on her folded hands as Vinnie finished securing the final ribbon.

She looked at herself in the mirror as she rose from the dressing table.

She studied her reflection for a long moment.

The Duke had made his choice. And it was not her. The reason, she thought bitterly, was staring back at her from the mirror.

She turned away before the reflection had the opportunity to wound her any further.

Leaving her chambers like a butterfly hesitantly emerging from its cocoon, she drew a slow breath. Her footsteps carried her almost automatically towards the guest wing until she found herself standing outside Lieutenant Colonel Radnor's chambers.

Whatever else had changed over the past few days, Eliza would not abandon this part of her routine.

The room was much as she had left it.

Colonel Radnor lay asleep in bed, the blankets drawn neatly over him. His complexion had begun to regain a little colour, the frightening pallor that had greeted them upon his return from Waterloo now giving way to healthier tones. However, the shadows beneath his eyes and the hollows about his face still demonstrated the battle his body continued to wage.

He always seemed to be sleeping whenever she visited. Eliza rather hoped that meant he was healing. Crossing the room on quiet feet, she picked up the leather-bound journal from his bedside table before settling into the familiar chair beside him.

For the first time since beginning their strange little ritual, she did not know what to write. The quill remained poised above the page.

"I hope you feel a little stronger today, Colonel," she said softly. "I have spent the past three days becoming rather well acquainted with my own bed. I confess, I can quite understand the appeal now."