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The sound of applause still echoed in Eliza's ears as Arthur guided her from the centre of the ballroom. She had not expected applause.

Truthfully, she had not even expected anyone to notice them beyond the first few moments of the dance, yet somewhere between the opening bars and the final note, the room seemed to gather around them. Couples had drifted to the edges of the floor, and hundreds of curious eyes had followed every step they took together.

It had been nothing like the first time they had danced. Then, she had simply tried to keep pace with him.

Tonight, they had moved as though they had danced together all their lives. Arthur had led when the dance required it, but more often than not he had surrendered the lead entirely, trusting her without hesitation. It had felt less like a performance and more like a conversation, each movement answered by another until the music itself seemed to disappear beneath the quiet understanding growing between them.

Something had changed on the dance floor. She simply did not understand what.

If she were entirely honest with herself, the whole evening felt strangely unreal, as though she had wandered into somebody else's life and was merely borrowing it for a few hours. Arthur had publicly dismissed Sophia, claimed her before half the aristocracy of the nation, and then looked at her with a tenderness she could only have dreamed of.

It felt impossible. Yet his hand remained gently around hers. Warm and real.

As he continued leading her through the crowds, she searched instinctively for Cecily, finding the familiar tumble of blonde curls almost immediately. Her sister now stood beside the Dowager Duchess, who appeared to be speaking animatedly with an elderly gentleman she had yet to be introduced to. Cecily caught Eliza's eye for the briefest moment and offered the smallest reassuring smile before returning her attention to the conversation.

Relief settled quietly within her. The Dowager had found her. Or perhaps the Dowager had found another project. She did not have time to dwell on this because Arthur did not slow his pace.

The sounds of the ballroom gradually softened behind them until the orchestra became little more than a distant melody. Their footsteps echoed gently against the stone as Arthur led her first down one passageway and then another, moving with the quiet determination of a man in search of some small pocket of privacy amid the clamour of London.

She was almost forced to jog to keep up with him.

At last he stopped before a pair of tall glass doors framed by carved white stone. Satisfied that the room beyond stood empty, he led them inside.

The change was immediate.

The warmth of the ballroom gave way to the rich fragrance of damp earth. Towering palms stretched towards the soaring glass ceiling overhead, whilst unfamiliar tropical plants filled every available corner. More than a dozen magnificent marble pillars stood at measured intervals throughout the conservatory, rising from the tiled floor to support the vast expanse of glass above. Their fluted shafts had been almost entirely claimed by climbing ivy and flowering vines, so that it became difficult to distinguish where architecture ended, and nature began.

Beyond them stood an immense stained-glass window, through which moonlight spilt across the terraces and into the palace gardens, catching the occasional silhouette of guests wandering through the courtyard. Their laughter drifted faintly through the darkness, just enough to remind Eliza that although they had escaped the ballroom, they had not quite escaped the evening itself.

Eliza turned slowly, her eyes wandering over every impossible detail before eventually settling upon Arthur.

He had not admired the towering palms. Throughout her inspection of the conservatory, his eyes had never left her.

A small crease appeared between her brows.

"You hurried me all this way merely to admire the plants, Your Grace?" she asked, unable to disguise the confusion colouring her voice.

"Stop that."

His voice was low, almost a hiss, carrying a firmness she had not expected.

Before she could question what he meant, he stepped towards her until not even a breath remained between them as his hand settled against her cheek.

The touch stole every coherent thought from her mind.

Eliza had spent weeks convincing herself that, in time, her heartache would lessen, that she would no longer remember the conflict in his eyes or the crushing certainty that she had somehow imagined every tender moment they had shared. Yet now the very same hand that had once pushed her away held her as though she were something infinitely precious.

Arthur had not looked away once.

"I should begin by admitting that I am not a man particularly well practised in courtship," he said quietly, the faintest trace of embarrassment crossing his features before disappearing almost as quickly as it had come.

"It has been a very long time since I attempted anything resembling it and, if I am entirely honest, I doubt I was much accomplished even in my youth, so you must forgive me if what follows lacks the elegance you deserve."

The admission alone was enough to leave her bewildered.

"I have remained silent for far too long," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers, "and in doing so I have allowed you to believe things that should never have darkened your mind. Before I say anything else, before I attempt to explain my behaviour or ask for your understanding, I need you to know one thing above all others, because I fear my silence has told a story that was never true." His voice lowered until, without even realising she had done so, Eliza found herself leaning towards him, unwilling to risk missing even a single word.

"I have never taken a mistress." Arthur declared.