Chapter Two
Eliza Wyndham had learned, in her three-and-twenty years, how to wait.
She had waited at her father’s side through surgeries that stretched for hours, instruments ready in her hands, watching for the precise moment when she would be needed.
She had waited beside sickbeds through long, airless nights, counting breaths and heartbeats, alert to the smallest sign of improvement or decline.
She had waited, after her father’s death, for grief to loosen its hold enough that she might remember how to live.
She was waiting now, in a guest parlour that had plainly been opened and aired for her arrival.
Its furnishings were elegant, but impersonal; the sort of room prepared for duty rather than welcome.
The house around her felt heavy with silence—not the peaceful quiet of a country estate in summer, but something denser. More oppressive.
A house holding its breath.
The Duke of Thornwood did not wish to see her.
She had gathered as much from the butler’s carefully neutral expression, from the housekeeper’s manner as she had shown Eliza to this room, and from Lord Marcus’s letters, which had not attempted to disguise the truth.
His cousin was resistant to assistance, suspicious of strangers, determined to shut himself away from the world and all who inhabited it.
A wounded creature, Eliza had thought while reading those letters. Cornered, snarling, and too frightened to recognise a hand that might heal rather than harm.
She had treated wounded creatures before—literally, as a girl, when she had nursed injured birds and foxes back to life, and figuratively, in the soldiers who had come to her after the war, their bodies damaged and their spirits shattered.
The trick was patience.
The trick was proving, slowly and steadily, that one was not a threat.
The door opened.
Eliza rose, smoothing her skirts in a gesture more habitual than necessary.
Her gown was good but plain: dove-grey muslin, serviceable after travel, chosen to suggest competence rather than fashion.
Her dark hair was pinned neatly beneath a simple cap, and her only ornament was the silver watch that had belonged to her father, tucked close where she could feel its familiar weight against her heart.
Lord Marcus entered first, wearing the tense expression of a man who had staked much on uncertain ground.
Behind him came another figure.
Eliza’s breath caught before she could prevent it.
She had seen injuries before. She had seen men marked by fire, blade, and shot.
She had kept steady before sights that would have sent many ladies into hysterics.
But something about the Duke of Thornwood—about the contrast between the ruin of his left side and the austere, almost severe beauty of his right—struck her with unexpected force.
He had once been handsome. Devastatingly so, if the portraits in the entrance hall were to be believed. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, eyes the grey-green of a winter sea. The right side of his face still held that beauty, preserved like sculpture. The left told another story entirely.
The scarring began at his temple and swept down across his cheek in a mottled river of pink and white, the skin drawn tight in places and ridged in others.
It disappeared beneath his collar, though Lord Marcus’s letters had told her it continued down his neck and shoulder—the legacy of burning debris searing through uniform and flesh alike.
He watched her look.
She could feel the weight of his gaze: sharp, assessing, waiting for the flinch. Waiting for pity. Waiting for revulsion to confirm every dark thing he had come to believe about himself.
Eliza gave him none of them.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping into a curtsey respectful enough for his rank, but not obsequious. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“I agreed to nothing.” His voice was low and clipped, every word a small weapon. “My cousin overstepped. You were brought here under false pretences, and I apologise for the waste of your time.”
“There is no need to apologise.” Eliza straightened and met his eyes directly.
They were indeed grey-green, she noted—pale as sea glass, and twice as cold.
“Lord Marcus made it quite clear in his letters that you had not consented to my presence. I came nonetheless, because I believed, and still believe, that I may be of assistance.”
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, perhaps, that she had not already retreated.
“You were told I did not want you here, and still you came.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
It was a fair question, and Eliza considered it before answering.
“Because I have learned, Your Grace, that what we want and what we require are not always the same thing. And because I have seen too many men like you—wounded, isolated, convinced beyond reason that they are beyond help—to walk away simply because the door was not opened with enthusiasm.”
“Men like me.” His jaw tightened, and she saw his hand flex against the back of the chair he used for support.
The movement was slight, but she catalogued it automatically: his right leg bearing most of his weight, the left placed with care, his grip suggesting considerable reliance on the upper body.
“You know nothing of men like me, Miss Wyndham.”
“I know that you were injured eight months ago in an engagement on the Continent. I know the damage to your leg was severe enough that amputation was considered and rejected. I know the burns to your face and shoulder have healed, but that the tissue beneath remains compromised.” She kept her voice steady and clinical, offering facts rather than sympathy.
“I know you have refused to see the physicians your family has sent, that you rarely leave this house, and that your mobility has declined rather than improved since your return.”
“You have been thorough in your research.”
“I am always thorough, Your Grace. It is how I obtain results.”
For a long moment, he merely looked at her.
The silence stretched between them, and Eliza forced herself to remain still, allowing him to take her measure without fidgeting or filling the pause with nervous chatter. Her father had taught her the value of silence, and the way it could speak more plainly than words.
“Results,” the Duke repeated at last. “And what results do you imagine you might obtain with me, Miss Wyndham? Will you restore my leg to its former strength? Erase the scars that mark me as a monster? Wave your healer’s hands and make me whole again?”
The bitterness in his voice was sharp enough to cut, but Eliza did not let it wound her. Bitterness, she had learned, was often the last defence of a man who had run out of other weapons.
“I do not work miracles, Your Grace. I cannot restore what has been lost, and I would not insult you by pretending otherwise.” She clasped her hands before her, choosing her next words with care.
“But I can assess the present state of your injury and determine whether some of the mobility you have lost might be regained through proper treatment. I can address the inflammation that is likely causing you considerable pain—pain you have learned to conceal, but which costs you more than you realise. I can help rebuild strength in muscles weakened by disuse.”
“And what makes you believe I want any of that?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with more than refusal. It carried the weight of a man who had decided, somewhere in the darkness of this silent house, that he did not deserve to heal; that this broken version of himself was all that remained, and all that ought to remain.
She had seen that burden before.
It was heavier than any physical wound.
“I do not know what you want, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “But I know what is possible. And I believe you deserve the chance to decide for yourself, with full knowledge of your options, rather than surrendering to despair before you have truly fought.”
Something shifted in his expression, too swift to read—there and gone like light passing behind cloud.
When he spoke again, his voice had lost a little of its edge.
“You speak plainly, Miss Wyndham.”
“I find plain speaking saves time, Your Grace. And I have never seen the purpose in wrapping difficult truths in comfortable lies.”
“A dangerous philosophy for a woman in your position.”
“Perhaps.” She allowed herself the faintest smile. “But I have found that men who have been to war prefer honesty to flattery. They have seen too much to be persuaded by pretty words.”
The Duke’s gaze sharpened.
For a moment, Eliza had the disconcerting sense of being truly seen—not as a healer, not as a woman, but as a person whose measure he was taking with the same careful attention she had applied to him.
“Five minutes,” he said abruptly.
Lord Marcus, who had watched the exchange with barely concealed tension, stepped forward. “Rowan—”
“I said I would grant her five minutes. The five minutes are over.” The Duke’s attention remained fixed on Eliza. “You may remain tonight, Miss Wyndham, as it is too late for travel. Tomorrow, a carriage will take you to the village, and you will be compensated for your trouble.”
It was a dismissal, plain and final.
Eliza inclined her head in acknowledgement.
“As you wish, Your Grace. But if I may—” She paused, waiting until she was certain she had his attention.
“I will not force my presence upon you. I will not badger or plead, nor attempt to convince you through argument. But I shall remain available, should you change your mind. The east wing, I understand, has been prepared for me. I shall be there, should you have need.”
“I shall not have need.”
“Perhaps not.” She dipped into another perfectly correct curtsey. “I wish you good evening, Your Grace. And I thank you for your time.”
She turned and walked to the door, conscious of his gaze upon her back, conscious of every measured step. Her hand was on the handle when his voice stopped her.
“Miss Wyndham.”
She turned. “Your Grace?”