Page 3 of The Duke’s Bargain

A final pause.

"Desperate enough to accept."

Ellis bowed with understanding before quietly withdrawing from the study, already considering which ladies might entertain such an unusual proposal, and how best to compose the letter that would find the future Duchess of Buckingham.

Chapter 2

Eliza swept the nursery as the children played outside, their unrestrained laughter drifting through the open window.

The nursery occupied what had once been a small bedchamber in Vicar Didley's modest cottage. She guided her broom carefully around the two tiny cots that stood in the centre of the room, each tucked beneath a neatly patched blanket. Four straw mattresses lined the walls, providing beds for the older children. It was hardly an orphanage by most standards, merely the nursery of a village vicar's home, yet for the five of them under its roof, it was the only home they had ever known.

Charles Didley and his wife, now well into their sixties, had never been blessed with children of their own. Instead, for more than thirty-five years, they had opened their home to those with nowhere else to go, raising dozens of abandoned children and sharing what little they possessed with remarkable generosity.

Eliza had been one of those children.

Mr Didley was a kind man. His once dark hair had long since turned silver, while the years had left his already slender frame increasingly frail. Mrs Didley was much the same, save for the round spectacles that seemed to perch permanently upon the bridge of her nose. They were simple people who asked for nothing, kept a spotless home, and somehow they always found room in their hearts for another mind to nurture.

In recent years, successive poor harvests had driven bread prices even higher. Even the quaint village of Windleham had not escaped the impact of harsh winters and failed crops. Only yesterday, Mrs Didley had whispered that she had heard of riots in the North.

Riots.

Over bread.

A few years earlier, the Didleys had been able to care for a dozen children at a time. Now there were only four, excluding herself. Turning children away had broken both their hearts, but kindness alone could not fill empty cupboards or keep a fire burning through winter.

Eliza rested the broom against the wall for a moment.

There had once been far more laughter within these walls. The children she had grown up beside, though not blood, had been her brothers and sisters in every way that really mattered. They had shared everything, from threadbare blankets to scraped knees and quiet tales beneath the covers long after Mrs Didley had wished them goodnight. One by one, they had all left.

Richard had left with a single shilling tucked into his palm by Mrs Didley before joining the Navy.

James had found work upon the docks somewhere in London.

Cecily, who was the first one to leave, had somehow secured a position as a maid to one of London's most fashionable families.

They still wrote occasionally, but she missed them dearly.

Richard's letters were the most coveted, carried home from whichever corner of the world the Royal Navy had taken him. James wrote of long days and aching hands, while Cecily filled page after page with descriptions of glittering London drawing rooms that felt as distant as another country. Though none of them had been born into the same family, the orphanage had made them one. Now, five years later, Eliza alone remained.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she glanced towards the open window. Henry, the seven-year-old boy in their care, had tripped over his own feet, prompting peals of laughter from the girls before he loudly insisted he had intended to fall all along. She fancied herself something of an amateur governess, though she doubted any governess in England would approve of her methods.

She had never received the education required for such a profession, but she possessed abundant patience and adored children. Each morning she taught them their letters and numbers, and the afternoons were spent reading stories aloud, practising hymns, or playing in the surrounding woodlands.

It was not a profession.

It was simply what needed doing.

And she loved it all the same.

Eliza's smile lingered for only a moment before fading. She knew she could not remain forever. The Didleys were growing older; the children deserved more than a village orphanage could offer; and at nineteen, she was no longer a child herself. The thought troubled her more than she cared to admit. Yet the thought of leaving had never felt so immediate.

She only prayed the day she had to leave was still a long way off. But the reality was that Eliza was simply another mouth to feed, and with every passing month she became more aware that the Didleys could scarcely afford even that.

The thought settled heavily in her heart.

She did not want to force Mr and Mrs Didley into making such a choice. They had been the closest thing she had known to parents for the past thirteen years, yet the truth remained that one day they would send her on her way. She was the oldest beneath their roof, save for the Didleys themselves. And there would always be another child in need of the bed she occupied. The thought hurt, though she tried to meet it with courage.

Still, she remained unfailingly hopeful. Compared with the dozens of children who had passed through the Didleys' care, she had been extremely fortunate and perhaps that was why the thought of leaving hurt so much.