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It was the only explanation for the sensation that had settled in the pit of Eliza’s stomach. Whether it was anxiety or sudden illness, she neither knew nor cared. All she knew was that if she allowed herself to linger too long, she would gather her skirts, turn around, retreat to her chamber, and never emerge again.

Drawing one measured breath, she straightened her shoulders and moved towards the table. She briefly glanced around. Though the dining table was large enough to seat more than two dozen guests in comfort, Winworth’s table rarely extended beyond five: the Duke at one head, the Dowager at the other, herself midway along the left side, Laurence opposite her, and, on occasion, the Colonel taking the fifth place.

The room was silent, and it appeared to have been that way long before she arrived.

A tall blonde woman occupied her usual seat, and Eliza knew who it was without needing a second glance. She would not allow anyone to see her falter; after all, she was under orders from the Colonel. Her entire concentration now rested on one simple objective: reach a chair without stumbling.

Eliza became aware of movement around the room, of chairs scraping against the polished floor as everyone rose to acknowledge her entrance. A chorus of polite greetings followed, though they blurred together into little more than indistinct sound.

She inclined her head in their general direction, uncertain whether she had acknowledged anyone at all, before lowering herself carefully into the chair nearest the blonde house guest.

Eliza lowered her eyes to the food being served onto her plate, watching absent-mindedly as the candlelight shimmered across polished silver cutlery, willing herself to focus on anything other than the suffocating silence that had embraced the table. When she finally gathered enough resolve to lift her gaze, every pair of eyes in the room was on her, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks almost immediately.

She did not look towards the Duke, though she could feel his attention, and she had neither the courage nor the strength to discover what expression accompanied it. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when his eyes were the first thing she sought upon entering any room; she was drawn to them almost without thought, searching for their smallest softening which was reserved only for her. Now, she could not bring herself to look at him at all, so she turned instead to the Dowager Duchess, whose presence offered at least a familiar reprieve.

The older woman's face softened the moment their eyes met, maternal concern unmistakable in her expression, though beneath it lingered something harder: a simmering displeasure directed further down the table.

Swallowing carefully, Eliza let her eyes drift onwards until they settled on Laurence. His familiar blue eyes met hers immediately, as though they had been waiting for her to look his way. He rewarded her with an encouraging smile, the sort he had worn countless times over the past months, yet tonight it looked strained, almost painful. It appeared that even Laurence, who could usually find humour amidst the bleakest of circumstances, was unconvinced by his own attempt at comfort.

Fighting against every instinct urging her not to, her eyes darted to the woman seated to her right.

Sophia.

The woman who had once possessed Arthur's heart with such certainty that Eliza had questioned whether there had ever truly been room for another.

Eliza turned once more to Laurence, grateful for the familiar comfort of his company and eager to speak to anyone who was not her husband. His easy presence gave her a brief escape, and she seized it at once.

"Are you all prepared for your journey, Laurence?" Eliza asked.

Laurence released an exaggerated sigh, leaning back in his chair with theatrical despair.

"Unfortunately so. My trunks are packed, I've looted the coffers here rather successfully," he said with a lazy grin, "and I shall be riding out at first light tomorrow."

"You will be terribly missed, you know." Eliza continued.

"I suspect, I shall miss you too, Duchess."

His blue eyes never left hers as he spoke, the words delivered with such effortless sincerity that they scarcely appeared remarkable to anyone listening, yet Eliza understood precisely what he was doing. It was a statement: a declaration, quiet enough to escape censure, yet unmistakable all the same.

He could so easily have said, I shall miss you all. He could have spoken generally, sparing the Duke any unintended slight and preserving the careful civility that had settled over Winworth.

Instead, he had chosen his words with the same precision he applied to everything else.

You.

His loyalty, as ever, had found its place.

Laurence never declared sides, never raised his voice or sought confrontation, yet somehow he possessed the extraordinary talent of speaking with such easy conviction that his words seemed to invite acceptance rather than consideration. Eliza suspected it was a family trait, given that he was descended from a long line of politicians. Still, it was a talent she had come to admire over the past few months, and perhaps explained why he had earned such affection from ladies wherever he went.

"But I shall see you again in only a few weeks for your ball," he continued, his smile brightening with deliberate enthusiasm. "I would not miss it for the world. All the season's finest ladies shall be there, all wonderfully eager to make my acquaintance. It would be terribly ungentlemanly of me not to oblige them."

A small smile found Eliza's lips in return, though it faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

The ball.

A few days ago, the very thought of her debut ball in London had filled her with excitement. She could remember sitting around this very table, maps of the ballroom spread before them, discussing flowers, musicians, and guest lists simply because the Duke had agreed she should make her debut into society as the Duchess of Buckingham, if that were what she desired. He had wanted to give her that happiness.

Now the happy memory seemed to belong to somebody else, and her ball no longer felt like a celebration. The thought sat heavily between them as she sought a safer subject.