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She hesitated, suddenly wondering whether the request might sound terribly peculiar.

"I have a proposal."

"Do go on." He said it with something close to exasperation, having spent the better part of the afternoon traipsing through a crowded marketplace only to discover she had known what she wanted all along.

"I should like another night's sleep."

He frowned ever so slightly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he confessed.

She finally looked up, meeting his eyes with a hopeful smile.

"In your bed."

Chapter 28

Arthur stood in the cottage that had once been his wife's childhood home, occupying one of the very few places within the sitting room where the ceiling did not require him to bow his head. The cottage itself was considerably smaller than he had imagined, its walls so close together that warmth seemed to linger effortlessly within them, and every surface covered with some trinket, piece of fabric, or book. It could scarcely have been more different from the orderly fashion of Winworth.

Mr and Mrs Didley greeted him with a kindness entirely devoid of pretence, seeming neither intimidated by his title nor overly familiar because of it. He suspected the couple welcomed him as they might any other guest, eager to show him the home they had built together and, with unmistakable pride, the improvements that had been made over the previous months.

Arthur listened far more than he spoke. It was impossible not to notice where every penny had gone. Mr Didley's own attire remained plainly worn, his black clerical coat carefully brushed but unmistakably old, the elbows polished smooth through years of faithful use. Mrs Didley wore a simple cream blouse beneath a hand-knitted cardigan whose sleeves had been mended more than once, each careful patch stitched so neatly that it almost appeared decorative rather than necessary.

They had spent almost nothing upon themselves. Yet when they climbed the narrow staircase and stepped into the nursery, Arthur found himself momentarily arrested, his mind conjuring an image of his wife as a little girl within those very walls.

The beds were clearly new, stacked close together and thick quilts were folded carefully at the foot of every mattress. The room lacked extravagance, but it had anticipated a child's need in abundance.

The Didleys were good people.

Later, over tea, Mr Didley spoke with quiet excitement of an offer they had recently submitted on a larger property at the far end of the village, explaining that the additional rooms would allow them to welcome several more children before winter arrived.

Standing within those four modest walls, surrounded by evidence of a kindness so quietly and consistently practised, he suddenly understood something that had previously eluded him. Eliza had not become the woman she was despite this home. She had become the woman she is because of it. Her instinct to place others before herself. Her remarkable capacity to find joy in the smallest things.

None of it had appeared by accident.

It had been cultivated here, beneath this very roof, by two people who possessed astonishingly little for themselves and yet somehow always found enough to give away. His eyes drifted across the room, finding his wife, surrounded by children almost without realising it.

Little Alice had firmly claimed residence upon Eliza's hip, the child's small arm looped comfortably around her neck as though she had no intention whatsoever of relinquishing her position. Beside them, Cora bounced excitedly upon the balls of her feet, proudly displaying something green she had discovered in the garden, speaking so quickly that Arthur doubted even Eliza could decipher every word.

Mary remained rather quieter.

She stood close enough that the sleeve of her dress occasionally brushed against Eliza's own, saying very little while studying her former governess with an expression that bordered upon quiet reverence, as though reassuring herself that the smiling Duchess before her remained the same Eliza Harper who had tucked her into bed and kissed scraped knees.

His attention shifted again.

Henry stood five paces apart from the others. The boy's arms were folded tightly across his chest, his expression one of determined suspicion as his gaze travelled from Eliza to Arthur before settling firmly upon the latter. He glared.

Arthur met the glare without the slightest alteration to his own expression. He had no intention of surrendering to a child scarcely tall enough to reach his elbow. If the boy had something to say, Arthur would allow him every opportunity to say it, but silence continued.

Henry's glare intensified, and Arthur found himself thoroughly amused. Very few people possessed the courage—or perhaps the recklessness—to glare openly at the Duke of Buckingham. Indeed, he could think of only two. One currently stood no higher than the dining table, glaring at him with all the solemn determination a seven-year-old could muster.

The other lay unconscious in a bedchamber at Winworth House. Not even Laurence would have dared such open defiance, even upon his bravest of days.

The steady chime of the pendulum clock in the hallway finally broke through the cheerful noise filling the cottage and drawing Eliza's attention away from the children. She glanced instinctively towards it before letting out the smallest sigh, one Arthur suspected only he had noticed, and gently lowered little Alice back onto her own feet.

"I'm afraid, my sweethearts, I shall have to leave now," she said, smiling warmly despite the unmistakable reluctance in her voice. "But this has been the most wonderful visit."

She pressed a kiss to Cora's forehead before turning, almost absent-mindedly, towards him.