Eliza remained near the edge of the branches. They did not try to impress one another. She asked no questions about his brother, the Duke, and he offered no apologies for the weather. It was simply quiet, comfortable, and remarkably easy. The silence between them felt natural, accompanied only by the wind in the leaves and the distant calls of birds over the water.
When she finally turned back toward the house, Eliza realized with mild surprise that their accidental conversation had been the most enjoyable part of her day.
The following afternoon, Eliza found herself walking down the same slope, drawn toward the same sweeping branches by the edge of the water. Lord Andrew was standing in almost the exact same spot. He turned as she approached, an undeniable spark of amusement in his dark eyes.
Eliza offered a polite, knowing smile. "You appear remarkably loyal to this particular tree, my lord."
"I was beginning to think the exact same of you, Miss Harkort," he replied.
This time, she stepped fully beneath the branches, and their conversation easily resumed. He spoke of his recent travels, mentioning the cities on the continent he had passed through over the last three years. He spoke of departures with the casual efficiency of a man who had mastered the art of leaving.
"And of all those places," Eliza asked, watching a small boat drift across the loch, "which of them did you actually consider home?"
Andrew hesitated, the easy amusement fading into something more thoughtful. "I am not entirely sure I have an answer to that," he admitted softly. He turned his gaze back to her. "And you? What do you consider home?"
"That is a much simpler question," Eliza said honestly. "Home is wherever my aunt directs the footmen to set down our trunks."
He smiled, recognizing the shared reality of a transient life.
Over the next few days, a quiet pattern established itself. The old willow became a point of gravity. Their meetings were never planned, never secret, and perfectly visible to anyone walking the estate grounds. Yet Eliza found herself lingering longer each afternoon, drawing unexpected pleasure from the dry wit and easy companionship of a man who required nothing from her but her presence.
Then came the afternoon she set out for her walk before the tea trays had even been cleared from the drawing room.
As she walked down the lawn, Eliza realized her pace was brisker than usual. She was hurrying. She did not like discovering this about herself. For years, she had survived the revolving door of seasons and house parties by following one silent rule: never expect a temporary pleasure to last. Hurrying meant she was looking forward to something, and looking forward to something was dangerously close to relying upon it.