Chapter Eleven
“I am here to see my cousin. I hear he has been hiding a treasure, and I am deeply affronted that I was not informed sooner.”
The declaration rang through the entrance hall, buoyed by the easy assurance of a man who had never been denied entry anywhere he chose to go.
“His Grace is not presently receiving callers, Lord Reginald,” came the butler’s calm reply. “However, I shall inform him of your arrival at once.”
“No need to trouble him just yet,” the visitor returned lightly. “Family requires no ceremony, surely.”
Eleanor looked up from the household accounts she had been reviewing, the name settling in her thoughts with quiet clarity.
Lord Reginald Whitcombe. Benjamin’s cousin.
A moment later, the gentleman in question strode into the morning room with the air of one entirely accustomed to being welcomed wherever he chose to appear.
Lord Reginald Whitcombe was everything Benjamin was not.
Where the Duke was tall and broad-shouldered, his cousin was lean and elegantly formed.
Where Benjamin’s face bore the marks of violence and endurance, Reginald’s was smooth and conventionally handsome in the manner society rewarded.
Where Benjamin moved with the measured deliberation of a man conscious of his own injuries, Reginald moved with the effortless ease of one who had never known physical discomfort.
He was, Eleanor recognised at once, the sort of man who had always obtained whatever he desired simply by smiling and expecting the world to oblige.
She rose with the composed dignity she had learnt to maintain in the face of unexpected visitors and inclined her head politely.
“Lord Reginald,” she said. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“And whose fault is that?” He crossed the room toward her, taking her hand before she had decided whether to offer it, and pressing a kiss to her knuckles that lingered a fraction too long.
“My wretched cousin neglected to invite me to the wedding. I was forced to learn of his nuptials through common gossip. Common gossip! As though I were some distant acquaintance rather than his closest living relation.”
“I was not aware His Grace had close relations.”
The words emerged sharper than she intended. Reginald’s brows lifted slightly, though his smile remained undisturbed.
“Oh, I like you,” he said lightly. “Benjamin has always possessed unexpected taste. Though I must say—” His gaze travelled over her with frank appraisal.
“You are considerably prettier than I expected. The rumours suggested he had married a spinster of advanced years and limited attractions. I see the rumours were, as usual, unreliable.”
Eleanor withdrew her hand. “I am twenty-nine, Lord Reginald. Some might consider that advanced.”
“Some would be fools.” His smile widened. “And pray call me Reginald. We are family now, after all.”
Family. The word sat uneasily in Eleanor’s thoughts. When she agreed to marry the Duke of Thornwood, she had not considered that she might acquire relations along with a title. The prospect was not wholly welcome.
“I shall personally inform His Grace of your arrival,” she said coolly. “I am certain he shall be… pleased to see you.”
“Oh, I doubt that exceedingly.” Reginald settled upon the settee without invitation, arranging himself with the casual assurance of a man who expected furniture to conform to his comfort.
“Benjamin has never been pleased to see me. We are not, I fear, the sort of cousins who exchange affectionate letters and reminisce over childhood summers. But blood is blood, and I was in the neighbourhood, and I could not resist meeting the lady who has finally persuaded him to rejoin humanity.”
“I fear you credit me with more influence than I possess.”
“Do I? I have heard that flowers have reappeared in the rooms. That meals are once again taken in the dining room rather than his study. Even the grounds show signs of renewed attention—I noticed the roses had been pruned as I arrived.”
His pale eyes—so unlike Benjamin’s dark ones—rested upon her with an interest that felt closer to assessment than admiration.
“My cousin has been a ghost in this house for years, Your Grace. If he is beginning to inhabit it in living form again, I suspect you are the cause.
Eleanor did not know how to answer. She was spared the necessity by the sound of uneven footsteps in the corridor—Benjamin’s distinctive gait, approaching with what sounded very much like haste.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, and the expression upon his face confirmed that pleased was indeed not the proper description of his feelings regarding his cousin’s arrival.
“Reginald,” he said flatly.
“Benjamin!” The cousin rose, arms spread in welcome that the Duke did not return. “How delightful to see you. You look… well, much the same as ever, I suppose. Still cultivating that air of brooding menace?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting family. Is that now a crime?” Reginald’s smile remained perfectly composed, though something sharpened behind it.
“I was passing through on my way to a shooting party and thought I might stop to offer my congratulations in person. Your bride is charming, by the way. Far more so than I expected, considering your well-known preference for solitude.”
Benjamin’s jaw tightened. “You should have written in advance.”
“And given you opportunity to contrive an excuse? Certainly not.” Reginald glanced between them, expression calculating.
“Come, cousin. Surely you can extend a single night’s hospitality to your only living male relation.
Unless you fear I shall corrupt your new duchess with tales of your misspent youth? ”
“I was not aware His Grace possessed a misspent youth,” Eleanor said mildly.
“Oh, he did not. That was always his difficulty—all duty, no dissipation. It made the rest of us appear rather disreputable by comparison.” Reginald’s tone remained light, though something bitter edged it. “Perfect son, perfect soldier, perfect heir. Until he ceased to be perfect, of course.”
The silence that followed was glacial.
Eleanor watched Benjamin’s face—saw the barriers slam into place, the brief flash of pain that preceded the familiar emptiness. His cousin had located the wound and pressed it deliberately, with the ease of long practice.
“You may stay the night,” Benjamin said, his voice stripped of all inflection. “I shall have a room prepared. Dinner is at seven.”
And before Reginald could reply—before Eleanor could intercede—he turned and walked away, his uneven footsteps echoing down the corridor until they faded into silence.
***
Dinner was a disaster.
Not outwardly—the food was excellent, the service flawless, the conversation flowing with the effortless charm Reginald seemed able to summon in any company. Yet beneath the polished surface, currents of tension ran deep enough to drown in.
Eleanor sat at her customary place, Benjamin at the head of the table, and Reginald positioned between them. The arrangement ought to have encouraged conversation. Instead, it created a battlefield in which every exchange felt like a carefully aimed volley.
“So tell me, Your Grace,” Reginald said as the fish course was served, “how did you and my cousin arrive at your arrangement? I confess I was surprised to hear he had married at all. He always seemed determined to allow the title to perish with him.”
“We met at a house party,” Eleanor said carefully. “At Lady Rutledge’s estate.”
“Ah, Lady Rutledge. Indeed, society has a remarkable talent for encouraging such encounters without ever acknowledging it.” Reginald smiled pleasantly, his tone conversational, his eyes keen.
“Though I imagine the match was not entirely… conventional. My cousin is not celebrated for romantic gestures.”
“I did not require romantic gestures.”
“No? How refreshingly practical.” He sipped his wine. “And Benjamin—what did you require? A hostess for this mausoleum? A mother for the heir you have been so reluctant to provide?”
The question was offensive. Eleanor recognised it instantly. But before she could respond, Benjamin set down his fork.
The movement was controlled. Deliberate. The kind of control that preceded either absolute composure or sudden violence.
“I required,” he said quietly, “a partner of intelligence and discretion. I found one.”
“Just so.” Reginald’s brows lifted slightly.
“You are most fortunate, Benjamin. Though I confess, Your Grace”—he inclined his head toward Eleanor with impeccable courtesy—“you exceed expectations. Society had prepared me to imagine a lady of more… mature serenity. Instead, one finds charm very well preserved.”
Eleanor inclined her head, the movement precise, polite, and utterly still.
“With a somewhat different disposition,” Reginald continued pleasantly, “you might, I think, have secured a most distinguished alliance. A viscountcy, perhaps. Possibly even an earldom. Still—” His gesture encompassed the great dining room, the silent servants, and Benjamin seated at the head of the table.
“Fortune rarely presents itself in precisely the form one anticipates. One must learn to value what is offered.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Eleanor felt the words settle—slipping beneath her armour with the quiet precision of a blade she had not seen drawn. Charm well preserved. A different disposition might have secured better.
You are pleasant enough, Eleanor, but pleasant does not maintain a household.
She opened her mouth—to deflect, to redirect, to smooth the moment with the diplomacy she had practised through a hundred uncomfortable encounters—but Benjamin spoke first.
“Her disposition,” he said, his voice quiet and cold as winter frost, “is precisely what this estate requires. It is also precisely what I require.”
Reginald’s smile faltered.
“Cousin—”