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Today, the Duke had remained in bed until half past one. Speculation was inevitable.

He disliked it immediately. Not for himself.

For Eliza.

He could still picture her exactly as she had looked only an hour earlier, sitting cross-legged amongst the rumpled bedclothes with her dark hair tumbling wildly about her shoulders, as she had looked at him with such complete trust. He recalled the moment she had leaned across him to light the lamp. Good God. She had done so with such perfect innocence that she had remained entirely oblivious to the effect she produced. He, unfortunately, had not possessed that luxury.

The warmth of her chest brushing so lightly against his own had lingered in his mind ever since, despite every attempt he made to banish it. Whatever foolish path his thoughts sought to wander down, he could not permit them. Attachment had never served him well. The more people one allowed into one's heart, the greater the opportunity fate had to tear them away.

Experience had taught him that lesson thoroughly, and he had no desire to learn it twice. His gaze drifted, entirely against his own wishes, towards the staircase. Radnor remained upstairs, still caught somewhere between life and death.

His own distraction felt like a betrayal.

"It will not happen again, Laurence." The warning in Arthur's voice was unmistakable, causing Laurence's smile to fade.

"Buck..." he said quietly, leaning forward. "You don't have to fight this."

Arthur said nothing.

"You deserve this."

Deserve what?

Had Laurence truly mistaken obligation for affection? Arthur had paid twenty thousand pounds to secure the future of the House of Buckingham, and Eliza, true to every promise she had made, was determined to make the marriage a success. She smiled because she wished him happiness. She sought him out because she believed it her duty.

None of those things meant she cared for him. They merely proved she was honouring her side of the bargain.

Eventually, Laurence changed course, reached into his coat, and produced a neatly sealed letter, laying it upon the table between them as the conversation shifted.

Arthur recognised neither the seal nor the handwriting.

"Lady Radnor reached Winworth shortly after breakfast this morning. She remained with the Colonel for perhaps half an hour before asking for writing materials." Laurence's expression darkened noticeably.

"She left this behind, instructing me to place it in his hands once he regained consciousness..."

His jaw tightened.

"...and then she departed." The disgust in Laurence's final words needed no further explanation. Arthur picked up the letter and turned it thoughtfully between his fingers.

How extraordinary. A husband lay within sight of death, and his wife had chosen ink instead of remaining by his bedside.

Almost before he realised he intended to speak, the words escaped him.

"Women leave."

Laurence considered him carefully as he continued staring at the unopened letter in his hands, and Arthur found, despite every effort to the contrary, that his friend's words had struck far closer to home than he cared to admit.

It was upon that rather sombre note that the dining room door opened and Eliza entered with far more energy than either he or Laurence presently possessed. Her navy skirts swept gracefully behind her as she crossed the room, the ribbons upon her bonnet already discarded somewhere upstairs, leaving her dark hair tumbling freely beneath its cap.

She reached her chair and lowered herself into it with considerably less elegance than enthusiasm and turned to Laurence.

"I dare say, good afternoon, Lord Benedict."

Laurence smiled in greeting, but it did not reach his eyes.

"How is the Colonel today?" she asked.

Arthur answered before Laurence could.