"Delia."
The voice, calm and deep, echoed from the doorway. Both women, the abuser and the abused, turned towards the sound.
Eric was leaning by the doorframe, the very picture of relaxed authority, his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets.
Anne stood just beside him, her eyes red and swollen from the aftermath of crying. She looked from Eric's commanding profile to Delia's pale face, and in that moment, she saw the same intense, focused gaze the Duke had given Delia in the garden last night. A final, painful wave of acceptance washed over her; she had truly lost. She lowered her gaze to the floor, a silent admission of defeat.
It turned out that when Anne had fled her room, distraught, she had nearly collided with the Duke in the main hall. He had simply looked at her and said, "Show me to Delia's room." The command was so absolute, she had obeyed without thinking.
"Come here," Eric said to Delia, his voice low and firm, but not unkind.