Chapter 3
The words cut through the house like a blade.
The sounds of Arabella’s rushed footsteps traveled closer to Charlotte’s room until finally she too stood at the doorway.
Eleanor clenched her fingers, still stained faintly with soot from Charlotte’s hearth, into a fist. The footman’s tone was careful, but his eyes flicked toward her with unmistakable curiosity.
“Again,” Lord St. George demanded from the doorway, confused by the sudden.
The footman straightened. “The Duke of Langford, my lord.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Expectant.
Lord St. George’s face transformed at once. Irritation smoothed into astonishment, astonishment into something very nearly resembling triumph.
“The Duke of Langford,” he repeated, savoring it. “Here?”
“Yes, my lord. He requests the presence of his betrothed.”
Charlotte gasped softly.
Eleanor did not move.
Lord St. George laughed, short and delighted. “Well. That settles it.” He turned sharply toward Charlotte’s rooms. “Charlotte, my dear, you must not keep His Grace waiting.”
Charlotte was already rising from her chair; her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Papa, I am not properly dressed.”
“You look quite charming as you are,” he assured her. “The Duke will understand.”
Arabella’s eyes darted from Eleanor to Charlotte to their father and back to Eleanor again. “Father,” she said, her voice unsteady, “perhaps –”
“Enough,” he snapped. “This is no time for dithering.”
Eleanor found her voice at last. “He did not say Charlotte.”
Lord St. George waved a dismissive hand. “Do not be absurd.”
The house seemed to surge into motion around them. Servants hurried. Doors opened. Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Within moments, all three daughters were descending together.
Charlotte first, then Arabella, and Eleanor walked behind them, her spine straight, her expression carefully composed. The gown she wore was serviceable, the color subdued. It did not command attention.
Charlotte, by contrast, floated downward in her morning attire, though she was wrapped in a silk robe so fine it caught the light with every step. Her hair lay loose about her shoulders, arranged to appear artless and fragile.
Arabella followed, her dress neat and flattering, though plainly made. Her mouth was tight with worry.
The Duke of Langford stood in the front hall.
He was taller than Eleanor expected. Broad-shouldered. Standing with unmistakable authority, and dressed in what appeared to be a very fine riding cloak. His dark gaze swept the staircase once, assessing, and then fixed.
On Eleanor.
Lord St. George stepped forward at once. “Your Grace. What an honor.”
James inclined his head briefly. “Lord St. George.”
Charlotte dipped into a graceful curtsy, her smile radiant. “Your Grace.”
Arabella followed suit.
Eleanor did not move.
James’s gaze never left hers.
“I am here,” he said evenly, “to see my betrothed.”
Lord St. George gestured eagerly toward Charlotte. “Of course. Charlotte, my–”
“My betrothed,” James interrupted, his voice cutting cleanly through the room, “is Miss Eleanor Barker.”
The words struck like a dropped plate.
Charlotte froze.
Arabella inhaled sharply.
Lord St. George stared, uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”
James stepped forward, stopping just short of Eleanor. “Miss Eleanor Barker is the lady who has claimed my hand. I am here to address that claim.”
Lord St. George’s face darkened. He rounded on Eleanor at once. “What nonsense is this?”
Eleanor opened her mouth.
“You have humiliated me,” he roared. “In my own house. Do you have any idea how shameful–”
“That should be quite enough.” James’s voice was quiet. Dangerous.
Lord St. George faltered, then nodded hastily. “Yes, Your Grace. I agree entirely. Her behavior has been most–”
James stepped forward again, placing himself fully between Eleanor and her father.
“I was not speaking of her behavior,” he said.
The room seemed to shrink.
Lord St. George blinked. “Your Grace?”
“I will not have you speak to my betrothed in that manner in my presence,” James said coolly. “It reflects poorly on your household.”
Eleanor’s heart pounded.
Charlotte recovered first. “Papa,” she said softly, “perhaps there has been a misunderstanding.”
“There has most certainly not been a misunderstanding,” James replied without looking at her.
Lord St. George flushed. “Miss Barker has clearly deceived you.”
“She has exercised initiative,” James said. “Which I respect.”
Eleanor found her voice at last. “I will not marry you, Your Grace.”
Every head turned.
James’s gaze sharpened. “You should have considered that before spreading rumors of our engagement.”
Eleanor had no answer.
Lord St. George seized the moment. “Your Grace, my youngest daughter is unwell, but would be more of an appropriate match–”
“I will not involve myself with more women,” James said flatly. “It is Miss Eleanor Barker or no one.”
The finality of it echoed through the hall.
Eleanor looked up at him, her pulse racing.
And realized, with a clarity that stole her breath, that the lie she had told the ton had just claimed her in return.
“This is preposterous,” Lord St. George’s voice cracked through the hall, sharp with fury barely contained. “I will not have this decided in the entryway like some vulgar farce.”
James turned to him slowly. “I suggest that perhaps you moderate your tone.”
Eleanor stood very still, her hands clenched at her sides. Her father’s face had darkened to a dangerous red, his jaw working as though he were biting back something far worse than words.
“I require… a moment with my daughter,” Lord St. George snapped, glaring at Eleanor. “You will leave us, Miss Barker.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “I have done nothing.”
“And yet you have damaged everything,” he retorted. “Go!”
She took a step back, anger burning hot and bright beneath her skin. Every instinct screamed to argue, to defend herself, to say something that might finally cut deep enough to matter.
Before she could speak, James did. “No.”
The single word landed with quiet authority.
Lord St. George turned, incredulous. “Your Grace?”
James said evenly. “I wish to speak with Miss Eleanor Barker alone.”
Lord St. George stared at him as though he had misheard. “This is my house.”
“And she is now my concern,” James replied. “It will take no more than five minutes.”
Charlotte made a small, affronted sound. “Papa–”
“Enough,” Lord St. George snapped, though his eyes never left the Duke. For a moment, Eleanor thought he might refuse. That pride would finally outweigh ambition.
Then Lord St. George inclined his head stiffly. “Very well, Your Grace. Five minutes.”
He turned sharply, gesturing Charlotte toward the stairs. Arabella lingered, her gaze flicking anxiously to Eleanor.
“I will be fine,” Eleanor said quietly.
Arabella hesitated, then nodded, following their father and half-sister from the drawing room.
The door closed behind them.
Silence rushed into the entryway, thick and unfamiliar.
Eleanor exhaled slowly. “That was unnecessary.”
The Duke regarded her. “Was it?”
“You did not have to contradict him so publicly.”
“Yes,” he said calmly, “I did. And this is hardly a public forum.”
She looked at him then, truly looked. At the icy blue eyes that affixed her and the jet black hair that was combed back neatly. The rigid set of his shoulders, the controlled stillness of him, the way his presence filled the space as though the house itself had adjusted around him.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied her with unsettling focus. “Why did you spread the rumors?”
Eleanor stiffened. “You already know why.”
“I want to hear it.”
She folded her arms. “Because I thought you would not be here to contradict the rumor. Because I am now considered too old to have a real suitor in the Season. Because I wanted to help my sister.”
“How would a marriage to me help your sister?”
“By making her interesting,” Eleanor said bluntly. “By giving the ton something else to look at besides her supposed deficiencies.”
“Well a marriage,” he said, “would accomplish the same.”
She shook her head. “I never intended to marry.”
“Yet you invented an engagement.”
She lifted her chin. “I did what I had to do. You were supposed to stay in the Lake District until next Season passed and I would make up a broken engagement.”
The Duke took a step closer.
Eleanor’s breath caught, entirely against her will.
“You are aware,” he said, “that claims such as yours do not exist in isolation.”
She held her ground. “You could have ignored it.”
“I could not,” he replied. “Which is why I am here. Do you expect for the ton to withhold their gossip and believe your story without my appearance at even one event?”
She frowned. “If you intend to force me–”
“I do not,” he interrupted. “I am giving you a choice.”
Eleanor laughed once, sharp and incredulous. “You arrive unannounced, terrify my family, declare your intention, and call it a choice?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him. “You are impossible.”
“Perhaps,” he said with a lifted eyebrow. “But I am not dishonest.”
He moved closer again, stopping just short of invading her space. The heat of his proximity, the way her thoughts scattered traitorously, it was all entirely so new and foreign, and she wanted more of it.
“You do not wish to marry me,” he said. “Very well. You may refuse.”
Her heart hammered.
“I will expect a letter of rejection by tomorrow before luncheon,” he continued. “Written by your own hand. Delivered to Langford House.”
Eleanor blinked. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“And if I do not?”
His gaze darkened. “Then I will assume your silence is consent and you will be my wife within the week.”
“That is absurd.”
“It is efficient.”
Her pulse raced. “Why?”
A corner of his mouth curved, humorless. “Because either outcome serves me.”
She stared. “How?”
“A marriage would provide insurance,” he said simply. “And a rejection would end speculation.”
She frowned. “Insurance for what?”
“That,” he said, “is not your concern.”
She bristled. “You are remarkably arrogant.”
“I am a duke.”
“That does not excuse–”
“No, but it does explain it,” he replied coolly.
Eleanor shook her head, anger and something far more dangerous tangling inside her.
“I assume,” he said, his voice dropping, “that you are not reckless without reason.”
His nearness was unbearable. Her thoughts slipped, her skin prickling as though aware of him before her mind could catch up.
The words settled heavy between them.
“You do not even know me,” she said.
“I know that you are loyal,” he corrected. “And that you will sacrifice yourself without hesitation for those you love.”
Her breath caught.
The Duke straightened. “Until tomorrow, Miss Barker.”
He turned toward the door.
“Wait,” Eleanor said.
He paused, glancing back.
“You are certain,” she asked quietly, “that you will not release me if I remain silent?”
His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Entirely.”
The door closed behind him.
Eleanor stood alone, her heart racing, her mind spinning.
She fled up the stairs, skirts gathered in her hands, driven by instinct more than thought. Her room awaited, her desk, the paper she would use to free herself.
She reached the landing and nearly collided with Arabella.
Arabella grasped her arms. “What did he say?”
Eleanor looked at her sister’s anxious face. At the hope there, fragile and undeserved.
“He gave me a choice,” Eleanor said.
Arabella searched her eyes. “And?”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
When she opened them, her voice was steady.
“I will marry him.”