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He crouched beside her, his expression carefully neutral as he scanned her body for obvious signs of injury.

"Don't. Move," he said, punctuating each word. He slid a hand beneath the mass of her hair to the back of her neck, gently feeling for any sign of injury, before his fingers hurried over the rest of her frame to assess the damage.

"Does... moving my lips count?" she wheezed, yet he could still hear the smile in her voice.

Was she always unbearably loquacious?

Yesterday, on the brief journey to the ball, he had watched the questions gather behind her eyes, each one waiting impatiently for its turn. She seemed to possess an endless curiosity, and an even greater determination to vocalise it. Apparently a near-fatal injury had done little to diminish that talent. Even now, she remained infuriatingly talkative.

"Can you feel your legs?" he asked as he finished his scan of her body. He could not see any signs of breaks or permanent damage, but he knew flesh could conceal pain.

"Yes," she squeaked as he placed his hand on her calf, "though I would rather not."

"Where does it hurt?" he asked.

"Just my chest," she coughed. "Perhaps my arm too. I must say I'm a little frightened to stand, so I have decided that I shall simply reside here, in this lovely forest, at least for a few hours."

Before she had even finished speaking, he was already standing over her. Placing a hand beneath each of her arms, he lifted her carefully to her feet before steadying her against his chest, taking her weight so she could concentrate on whether she was able to stand unaided.

"How do you feel now?" His eyes searched her face. Once again, there were no discernible signs of injury or concealed pain, and Eliza leaned into him, allowing him to take her weight.

"I'm okay, my pride, less so," she admitted quietly.

"I believe you are merely winded, but I shall have Mrs Clapton send for a physician immediately," Arthur said as he gently guided them back towards the clearing, where the stable boy and Mrs Clapton remained.

Arthur did not have the chance to finish barking his orders before the housekeeper had already bowed and made haste towards Winworth.

He then turned his gaze towards the boy standing before them; guilt and distress were etched across his face.

"Identify yourself,” said Arthur.

"M-my name is John, Your Grace. I am the st-stable boy."

The stuttering mess before him looked as though he was about to cry.

Arthur despised tears. His father had taught him from an early age that they were a sign of weakness. Crying had earned him the lash more than once.

"Steady yourself, John," Arthur said, his voice low but commanding. "Take a breath. Then answer me clearly, or it shall be your last day in service at Winworth." The warning was meant to stop the boy's panic before it spread.

The boy swallowed hard, and Arthur was momentarily distracted by Fido, who had now trotted to his master's side, seemingly unforgiving of the commotion he had caused.

"Why did you allow the Duchess to ride my stallion?"

"Y-your Grace, I—"

He felt two warm hands press against his chest as Eliza turned to face him, placing herself squarely between Arthur and the trembling stable boy. His arm, which had been supporting her only a moment before, now rested around her waist, leaving them standing in an embrace of sorts.

"This was not John's fault, Arthur," she looked up at him, speaking softly whilst holding his gaze. "I wanted to ride him; in fact, I insisted. Please do not punish him." Her plea cut cleanly through the moment.

Eliza began to shrug her shoulders sheepishly, which he suspected was something she did often, but the movement drew an immediate wince. Pain flickered across her face, and his eyes narrowed.

She remained supported against him, though one hand had drifted to the front of his coat, gripping the fabric to steady herself. They stood closer than they ever had before, even including the brief kiss they had exchanged at the altar. Close enough for him to see the flecks of gold hidden amongst the green of her eyes. Close enough for a loose black curl to brush against his jaw whenever the breeze stirred.

"You will not ride again," he said.

She opened her mouth to object.

"Duchess," he repeated, more slowly this time, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. If she would not permit him to hold the stable boy accountable, then she would not be permitted to ride again. The matter was settled in his mind.