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Chapter 42

The journey was nothing short of excruciating.

It was only the third carriage journey they had shared since their marriage, yet it bore no resemblance to the previous two. Gone was the endless stream of questions that had once tumbled so naturally from Eliza's lips. She still shared the same fascination with every village they passed, every peculiar tree, every flock of sheep grazing in distant fields, but this time she did not verbalise it.

Eliza could feel the Duke’s warmth as they sat inches apart, but she dared not look at him as she knew her cheeks would betray her and brighten. They were traitors who forgot the hurt he had caused. Her husband was a handsome man; she had always thought so, but at times like this, she rather wished he resembled an ogre. It would have made disliking him considerably easier.

Sensing his eyes upon her, Eliza kept her gaze fixed firmly on the window. She heard the repeated attempted start of speech from the man beside her, followed by the clearing of his throat, but nothing materialised. The silence between them remained stubbornly intact, and she refused to be the one to break it. If he meant to speak, he would have to do it first.

Instead, she turned her attention to the world beyond the glass. Since coming to Winworth, she had ventured no farther than Windleham to visit the Didleys and the children, something she had done repeatedly since Cecily’s arrival. Before marrying the Duke, when Windleham had been her home, she had scarcely ventured beyond the boundaries of the village at all.

She was not like Cecily, Richard or James, each of them pursuing grand ambitions in the city or across the globe while she remained rooted to the small corner of England she had always known. She had often wondered what London might be like, whether it was truly as exciting as Cecily made it sound, or quite as daunting as the Duke would have her believe.

Before long, her questions were answered as the familiar sounds of the countryside gave way to the bustle of London. The roads grew busier, the buildings taller, the air alive with the clatter of carriage wheels, the cries of street vendors and the endless movement of a city that refused to pause for the approaching dusk.

The carriage turned into Bloomsbury Square, one of London’s most fashionable addresses, according to her sister. Despite the lateness of the hour, Eliza had never seen so many people in one place. Elegant townhouses framed the darkened central gardens, their symmetrical façades illuminated by the warm glow spilling from countless windows. Footmen hurried across the square carrying lamps; it seemed to Eliza that all of London remained awake long after Windleham had gone to bed.

The wheels rolled to a gentle halt outside a house occupying one of the finest positions on the square. Built from pale stone, its broad windows glowed warmly with candlelight, while the front door stood wide open and a pair of footmen waited at the ready. Its imposing entrance and sweeping stone steps announced, without need of introduction, that this was a residence accustomed to serving the most distinguished members of the aristocracy, and tonight, the Duke of Buckingham had arrived.

Arthur stepped down first; maybe he was as eager to be out of her company, and she needed a break too. Her legs protested after so many hours confined within the carriage, so when he turned immediately, offering his gloved hand towards Eliza, she placed her hand in his.

"This," he said quietly as she joined him upon the pavement, "is Pembroke House, our London residence."

She watched him lift his gaze and let her own travel slowly from the broad stone steps to the elegant rows of windows climbing towards the roofline, taking it all in.

"It's lovely," she murmured.

Colonel Radnor and Cecily were already standing within the entrance hall, while the third carriage had only just begun drawing to a halt behind them. Around the square, gentlemen and ladies continued about their business, and several tipped their hats politely as they passed.

One gentleman appeared to recognise the Duke. The acknowledgement vanished almost immediately as the man lowered his gaze, abruptly altered his course and crossed to the opposite side of the square.

"Welcome to London," the man continued quietly.

Then, resting a gentle hand at the small of her back, only long enough to guide her over the threshold, he led her into Pembroke House. The touch was fleeting, and yet Eliza felt the warmth of his palm long after he had withdrawn it.

The Duke had arranged for two rooms on the ground floor to be converted into bedchambers, one for Colonel Radnor and the other for himself, leaving Miss Dawson free to occupy the chamber adjoining Eliza’s in the traditional family apartments above. It was a practical arrangement, Eliza supposed, though she could not help noticing that it placed an entire floor between husband and wife.

Before Eliza could dwell upon the fact, she felt a sudden tug at her arm.

“Come, Lizzie. You must get some rest tonight, and I need to make the final alterations to your gown for tomorrow.”

And with that, Eliza found herself being dragged halfway up the stairs, Cecily not once looking back, entirely at ease issuing orders in a house over which she possessed absolutely no authority.

Quite possibly the only person in England without a care for the formalities expected in the presence of the Duke of Buckingham.

Chapter 43

The following evening, Arthur stood in the shadowed entrance with Eliza’s arm resting lightly through his own. They had spent more time together in the past twenty-four hours than they had in the previous month combined, and somehow, at thirty, he found himself with all the composure of a schoolboy attempting to court his first young lady.

He longed to bridge the impossible distance that had grown between them, but, rather like that schoolboy, he had absolutely no notion how.

He could only hope that, in time, she might come to understand his motivations. That she might see that everything he had done had been born not from cruelty, but from the consuming fear that if he allowed himself to remain close to her, he would eventually become the man who broke her beyond repair.

And then, perhaps, she might forgive him.

The sheer improbability of his own thoughts was enough to return him rather abruptly to reality.

Beyond the marble wall that concealed them from the ballroom, the roar of hundreds of voices ebbed and swelled like the tide, punctuated by bursts of laughter, the distant strains of a string quartet and the occasional clink of crystal. Somewhere beyond the grand staircase, the whole of London’s aristocracy had gathered, waiting for the Duchess of Buckingham’s debut.