Page 94

Eliza stared at him in complete disbelief.

"You have never eaten something simply because it made you happy?"

Arthur looked faintly puzzled.

"I cannot say that I have."

"Oh, Arthur..." She shook her head slowly, a smile tugging irresistibly at the corners of her mouth. "That may be the saddest thing you have said to me yet."

For the briefest of moments, she thought she caught the ghost of a smile threatening the corner of his own lips.

The sound of continued babbling questions followed the carriage for the rest of its journey, each answer seemingly giving rise to another until, before Eliza quite realised how much time had passed, the carriage began to slow, its iron wheels rumbling over the familiar cobbled streets.

The carriage came to a gentle halt a short distance from the centre of the village, precisely where the lane leading to the Didleys' cottage disappeared between two rows of weathered stone buildings. Eliza felt her heart quicken almost immediately.

How many mornings had she walked this very road? How many afternoons had she hurried through the market carrying baskets far heavier than Mrs Didley had ever intended her to carry?

The memories returned all at once, vivid enough that she could almost believe no time had passed at all. Arthur climbed down first with effortless grace before turning immediately towards the carriage, extending one gloved hand without a word.

Eliza accepted it without hesitation. His fingers closed securely around hers as he steadied her descent until both of her feet rested upon the cobbles below.

She lifted her head.

The market looked almost exactly as she remembered it. Stalls crowded either side of the narrow street beneath faded canvas awnings, their owners calling cheerfully to passing customers as baskets overflowed with fresh vegetables, ribbons, flowers, bread and every imaginable trinket. The familiar scent of warm bread drifted from the bakery, mingling with fresh herbs, horses, damp earth and woodsmoke carried in the mid-July air.

Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith's hammer rang rhythmically against metal. A child laughed. Someone argued loudly over the price of apples. She even recognised several faces moving amongst the crowds.

Only now did she realise how tightly she had been holding her breath. She tried, unsuccessfully, to steady it.

Arthur moved until she felt the warmth of his hands settling lightly upon her waist. His touch was firm enough to steady her, yet so gentle she almost questioned whether it had happened at all.

"Steady." The single word was spoken quietly, low enough that only she could hear it.

Arthur could no more have offered flowery reassurance than she could have stopped talking altogether. Instead, he issued a calm instruction, as though her nerves might obey him as readily as one of his estate workers or a nervous horse.

Ridiculous though it was, her nerves began to ease. The moment his hands slipped away, she instinctively looped her arm through his.

He offered no objection. Together they began walking towards the market, with the attendant in tow, three paces behind.

It took only seconds for their arrival to be noticed.

The lively bustle continued, yet something subtle shifted as they passed between the stalls. Conversations gradually softened, laughter became more restrained, and heads turned one after another until it seemed the entire marketplace had quietly become aware of the Duke's presence. Nobody stared openly; such a thing would have been unforgivably rude, but curiosity lingered in almost every glance that followed them.

The cheerful clamour of the market remained, though now it existed more as a gentle murmur surrounding them than the lively chorus it had once been.

Eliza found herself glancing sideways towards the man walking beside her. He stood a full head taller than almost every gentleman they passed. Yet it was not his height that drew her gaze. Nor was it the scars on his face. It was the quiet certainty with which he carried himself.

He walked as though he belonged wherever he happened to stand, his every movement possessing an unforgiving confidence, as though the world around him was expected to make way.

Her attention was soon captured by a stall displaying an assortment of beautifully crafted trinket boxes, each one carved from polished wood and decorated with delicate painted flowers in every imaginable shade. Her hands drifted towards them almost instinctively, lifting one, then another, inspecting them carefully in her hands as though each deserved to be admired before any decision could be made.

"They're beautiful," she murmured as Arthur had stopped beside her.

"You must choose something rather grander than that, Duchess," he observed quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear it.

"I wasn't choosing them for myself."

"No?"