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He paused.

"Unfortunately, I have never claimed to be an honourable nobleman."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, and Laurence continued before either of them could speak.

"I see I have discovered one meal each day that we do not appear to share." He gave a thoughtful nod. "An unfortunate revelation, I confess."

Eliza's horrified expression cracked, and before long she was biting her lip to suppress a laugh. Arthur looked down at her. Moments ago she had been flushed with passion. Now she was fighting laughter. Arthur suspected the Devil himself would be put at ease by Laurence.

"Your Grace," Laurence continued, the folio never wavering from its position, "please know that I saw absolutely nothing."

He cleared his throat.

"As for His Grace..." another pause, "...I have an entirely different message."

Arthur closed his eyes. Once. Slowly.

“Laurence.” His voice was dangerously calm. “I killed a man yesterday for touching my wife. I trust you have an exceptionally compelling reason for interrupting me whilst I am doing precisely the same.”

"I do," Laurence replied without hesitation, giving a small shrug, the folio still held firmly over his eyes.

"I should hope so," Arthur said.

"Would you like me to continue looking at this book, or has the danger passed?"

Arthur stared at him.

"The danger, Laurence, has increased considerably."

"I feared as much," the man had the gall to mutter, sounding almost disappointed.

Eliza cleared her throat before offering Arthur her hand. He took it immediately, helping her down from the desk.

"I should leave you two to it," she said quietly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looked down at the floor, unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips. "See you at dinner, Lord Benedict… I hope."

She slipped her fingers from Arthur's before leaving the study, closing the door with a rather deliberate thud behind her, almost as though to announce her departure, something the last guest, now standing before him, had evidently forgotten to do.

Laurence lowered the book at once. The expression on his face was exactly the one Arthur had imagined. Insufferable.

"Whatever happened to knocking?" Arthur bellowed.

"Well, forgive me for not realising you'd abandoned your ridiculous vow of abstinence and started bedding your wife. You didn't exactly send a memorandum to my chambers."

"We were not bedding," Arthur grumbled, dragging a hand down his face.

What, exactly, had they been doing? She had looked at him—pleaded with him—asked him to make her his in every sense of the word. And God knew he had wanted to. He had wanted her from almost the moment they met.

But she was naïve. She wanted love. It was there every damned time she looked at him, all that impossible hope written plainly across her face. And what could he offer in return? Certainly not what she deserved.

And yet, five minutes later, she had been perilously close to surrendering her virtue on his desk.

He could not think about that now. Thankfully, Laurence interrupted his thoughts.

"You should be. And I'm glad you are. A marriage of convenience without convenience is just a marriage." The words sounded as though they tasted bad on Laurence's lips. "Which is rather ironic, considering that's one thing you never wanted. Besides, you can't produce an heir if you don't actually make one. I did offer to draw you a diagram, didn't I?"

Arthur shot him a withering look. Then he looked properly at his friend.

The most charismatic man he knew. The man with more honour and loyalty than half the establishment put together. Laurence did not have to say it aloud; he already knew Laurence had remained at Winworth for his sake, offering him refuge from his own mind and from his marriage. The poor man was like a fish out of water in the countryside without bedsport, booze, and balls.