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"What is it you must do once you reach London?" she asked softly, grateful for the opportunity to turn the conversation towards something altogether less suffocating.
Unlike so many people, who guarded information as though it were some precious commodity, Laurence offered conversation as freely as he breathed.
"Well," he began thoughtfully, folding his napkin onto his lap, "first I shall present myself before my father, who has become increasingly anxious for my return. He has long resigned himself to the fact that I am his most willing protégé, so I suppose I ought to indulge the poor man for a few days. My elder brother has entirely abandoned him in favour of hovering over his wife whilst she enters her fourth confinement, and my sister..."
He paused dramatically.
"My sister is… too spirited for my father’s profession."
"So the youngest child has been promoted", Eliza smiled despite herself.
"Precisely." Laurence nodded gravely. "It is a burden I carry with tremendous dignity." His solemn expression lasted a heartbeat before it dissolved into a grin.
"Then I shall reluctantly support my father through a handful of parliamentary sittings, help him persuade the Government to adopt my flawless opinions, save the nation from itself, and finally"—he paused once more, placing a hand theatrically against his chest- “court a lady.”
A faint laugh escaped Eliza before she could stop it. It made perfect sense that he was the youngest. Only the youngest child could possess such effortless charm whilst carrying so little concern for dignity. She found herself wondering what the Laurence household must have been like, for if their youngest son was any indication, it had surely been a home full of warmth and laughter.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the Dowager Duchess setting down her knife.
"Have we forgotten our manners, Miss Weatherly?" The older woman's voice remained perfectly measured, though there was steel beneath every syllable. Almost involuntarily, Eliza allowed her eyes to drift towards Sophia's place setting.
Eliza’s own plate remained largely untouched, but Sophia's had long since been emptied. A footman had barely removed it before another had been placed before her, and she was already helping herself to a second generous serving, as though oblivious to the scrutiny at the table.
Sophia paused, her serving spoon suspended awkwardly in mid-air.
"If one is dining outside one's family home," the Dowager continued, her gaze unwavering, "it is considered most improper for a lady to take a second helping."
A beat of silence followed.
"Of course, a lady who is with child may be forgiven for such an appetite."
Eliza had already turned her attention back to Laurence, determined to pretend she had not heard the exchange, but the air around the room suddenly felt heavier. Then the silence sharpened into something far more painful.
A chair shifted. Someone inhaled sharply. The crackle of the fire suddenly seemed unnaturally loud.
Eliza looked back to the woman beside her. Sophia had instinctively placed a protective hand across her abdomen, the movement so unconscious, so fleeting, that it might have escaped anyone not already watching. It had not escaped the Dowager.
Colour drained from the older woman's face. The Dowager’s eyes widened with dawning comprehension before one trembling hand rose slowly to cover her mouth.
Laurence’s eyes fixed sharply on the Duke with an unreadable expression. The realisation struck the table all at once, and Eliza felt it before she fully understood it.
The woman seated beside her was with child.
The Colonel's voice echoed relentlessly through her mind.
Do not cry.
Do not cry.
Do not cry.
She drew a slow breath, only for it to lodge painfully in her chest, and for the first time in three days, she locked eyes with the Duke.
Eliza was confident she had spent enough hours studying his face to know every expression he was capable of wearing. She knew the slight tightening of his jaw when he was displeased, the faint crease that settled between his brows when he was troubled, the distant look that overtook him whenever memories found him uninvited. She had memorised every subtle shift, so that even when he offered her no words, she understood him all the same.
There was no hint of surprise on the Duke’s face. Only a rigid composure that looked perilously close to splintering beneath the surface. His jaw shifted once, his brow deeply furrowed, as though he were not absorbing a newly discovered piece of information but confronting the consequences of something he had long known would eventually find him.
He had known of the pregnancy.
