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"The summers after that," Laurence continued more quietly, "were spent at my family's estate. Buck became as much my father's son as I was. I don't believe my father ever truly distinguished between us."

As they wandered deeper beneath the trees, conversation drifted naturally from one memory to another.

She learned that Laurence came from an esteemed family of politicians stretching back generations, men whose names filled parliamentary and royal records rather than military dispatches. Listening to him speak, she realised his greatest gift extended far beyond charm. He possessed an extraordinary ability to persuade without appearing to persuade at all, wrapping conviction so elegantly within humour that one scarcely realised one's opinion had changed until the conversation was over.

He would, she thought privately, make a formidable Prime Minister one day. Arthur commanded a room through silence. Laurence did so through words.

Each possessed precisely what the other lacked.

In exchange for tales of Eton, she spoke of Windleham.

Of sharing cramped bedrooms with James, Richard and Cecily, where elbows and blankets were forever being stolen during the night. Of climbing trees in dresses she invariably ruined despite repeated warnings from the Vicar's wife. Of the orphanage now slowly expanding because of Arthur's generosity. Of the Vicar himself, who had taught her that kindness was one of the few things in life that cost almost nothing, and therefore ought to be given away freely.

Laurence listened without interruption. When he spoke again, his stories returned inevitably to Arthur.

There were scraped knees and impossible Latin masters. Midnight escapades Arthur insisted were dreadful ideas before somehow finding himself leading them. Endless tales of a boy who frowned more at thirteen than most gentlemen managed in an entire lifetime.

Eventually, the stories reached the Army.

The change was almost imperceptible.

Laurence's smile remained, but it no longer quite reached his eyes.

She had begun to understand enough about military life to know that many men of Laurence's rank and family never truly experienced the front line. Commissions could be purchased, appointments arranged, and safer positions quietly found so that they would not have to see bloodshed.

Arthur had chosen differently. So had Radnor. Laurence never lingered upon the details, yet she began to recognise something hidden beneath his laughter whenever those years arose.

Not shame. Not quite.

Guilt.

The guilt of a man who had not set foot on a battlefield, a man who was rather different from his brothers. Only then did she truly understand that Laurence's humour was far more than simple good nature. It was an act of quiet kindness.

A shield he had fashioned over many years, determined that if Arthur and Radnor had carried the burden of war, then he would carry whatever burden remained. Someone, she realised, had to remember the man Arthur had been before war. Someone had to keep making Radnor laugh. Laurence had accepted that duty without ever being asked.

If Lord Benedict could not stand beside his brothers on the battlefield, then he would spend the rest of his life making certain they never forgot how to laugh once they came home.

Dinner often passed quietly, the only notable news being that the Dowager Duchess was expected to return to Winworth by the middle of July. Beyond that, conversation drifted harmlessly between the servants, the physician remained waiting, and another day slipped by without word from the Duke.

As the sun sank beyond the grounds, Eliza dismissed the musicians for the evening. She found she no longer needed them each day, content instead to hum softly to herself as she practised the slower movements of her dance alone in the drawing room, her bare feet whispering across the polished floor.

Then, somewhere beyond the open windows, she heard it. At first it was little more than a distant rumble.

Moments later, it became unmistakable.

The thunder of galloping hooves echoed along the long stone drive towards Winworth House.

Chapter 22

She froze.

For the span of a heartbeat, she could do nothing but listen, her mind refusing to believe what her ears already understood. The thunder of hooves echoed ever louder across the grounds, bouncing from the iron gates and racing up the long stone drive until it seemed to shake the very walls of Winworth House. Then she gathered her skirts and ran.

"Laurence!" she exclaimed.

The call escaped her, and by the time it left her lips, he was already emerging from Arthur's study, the door swinging sharply against the wall behind him. They met only briefly in the corridor, exchanging a single glance that needed no explanation before setting off together, descending the great staircase almost in step.

The household had heard the thunder of hooves as well. One by one, servants emerged into the hall.