The carriage rolled to a smooth stop in front of the familiar courtyard of Eric's private residence. The long day was finally over. Mr Rye helped Delia down, and she stretched her tired body as she stood in the cool night air. She looked up at the grand house, her gaze immediately going to the windows of Eric's bedroom. There was no sign of movement, no warm, welcoming light.
"He isn't home yet?" she asked herself, a small, sharp pang of disappointment in her chest.
Mr. Rye, having just finished uncoupling the horse from carriage and taken it to the stables, came back to her, a single letter held in his gloved hand.
"Your Grace," he said with a respectful bow, "it seems another letter has arrived for you from the main estate."
Delia took it and saw the elegant, familiar script of Duchess Lyra Carson on the front of the envelope. She thanked Mr. Rye, gathered the skirt of her dress in her hand, and went inside, the letter held tightly in her other hand.
