Chapter 5 #2
Lord St. George took two broad steps so as to stand in front of him. “Well, I must explain… Your Grace, please?”
James lifted his eyebrows and then gave the Baron one tight nod.
“While I cannot provide the portion in liquid currency today, I have settled thirty thousand pounds in the Three Percent Consols upon her. The principal is to be held in trust, ensuring her a permanent income of nine hundred pounds per annum for her own use, with the capital eventually passing to the children of this marriage, Your Grace.”
“Very well, St. George. I understand. Her dowry means very little to me. But it is settling to know you have taken care of her in at least this one way,” James said, with more venom in his speech.
Silence rested between them as he watched the Baron’s expression change from forced cheer to rankled to forced cheer once more. James let the silence build to the Baron’s discomfort, and nodded dramatically.
“As you wish, Your Grace. Please,” the Baron gestured grandly down the corridor. “The ladies are just this way.”
James followed without comment.
He heard voices before he saw them. Charlotte’s voice most distinctly, pitched to be heard. A performance about lilies being removed as James entered.
The drawing room was crowded with fabrics and fuss.
Boxes sat open. A seamstress hovered near the fireplace like prey uncertain of the predator’s mood.
Miss Charlotte Barker stood in a pale robe; her hair arranged in a way meant to appear effortless.
Miss Arabella Barker sat near the window, quiet and watchful.
And Miss Eleanor Barker–
James’s gaze found her immediately.
She stood slightly apart from the others, holding a folded length of ivory silk with steady hands. Her gown was plain, the sort of thing that disappeared in a room full of ornament. Yet she did not disappear.
She looked up at him, and something shifted in James’s chest.
Not softness.
Recognition.
Charlotte beamed. “Your Grace. You have arrived at precisely the right time. We were discussing the floral arrangements for the wedding breakfast.”
“I do not care about flowers,” James said.
A beat of silence.
Charlotte recovered first with a tinkling laugh. “Of course not. Gentlemen rarely do.”
James did not look at her. “How are the preparations progressing?”
Lord St. George launched into an enthusiastic report. “The invitations are being distributed. Your Grace has secured All Saints’ Parish. And the time?”
“Ten.”
“Oh good, that is a great time,” the Baron said quickly. “The modiste is making adjustments to her gown –”
Charlotte cut in sweetly, “Papa insisted on ivory. It is suitable for a duchess.”
James’s gaze remained on Eleanor. “Do you… like… ivory, Miss Barker?”
Her spine straightened as though the question had reached deeper than fabric. “It is fine, Your Grace.”
“That was not my question.”
The ivory gown lay smooth against Eleanor’s frame, the fabric catching the light as she turned slightly before the mirror.
The room stilled again.
Lord St. George stood near the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. “Miss Barker appears satisfied,” he said coolly. “That is all that matters.”
James’s features stilled.
“She is your eldest daughter, is she not? Surely, you may cease referring to her as Miss Barker in my presence,” he said, mild but unmistakably firm. “And she is to be my wife.”
The silence that followed was brief, but sharp.
Lord St. George shifted, the movement small and unguarded. “Formality is appropriate,” he replied. “Especially when expectations must be made clear.”
James met his gaze. “Respect is appropriate. Especially in my presence.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened at her side; her stare fixed on Eleanor with open hostility.
Eleanor did not look away from him.
James’s gaze landed on her again. “Are you?”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened on the silk. She hesitated for only a moment, the smallest pause, but James noticed everything.
“What?”
“Are you satisfied with this dress?”
“No,” she said quietly.
Lord St. George’s face darkened at once. “Miss – Eleanor –”
James’s gaze flicked toward him, cold. “Let her speak.”
Her father swallowed his anger. “You do not like it?” he demanded, already flushing. “After everything being arranged for you?”
Eleanor lifted her chin, her composure taut. “I prefer a warmer shade. Cream, perhaps.”
Charlotte’s lips parted in disbelief. “Cream?”
“It is softer,” Eleanor said. “And, if I may be frank, ivory will wash me out.”
Charlotte stared as though Eleanor had insulted the crown itself.
Lord St. George’s jaw clenched. “You will wear what I have provided!”
James watched Eleanor’s reaction. The slight flare of her nostrils. The restraint. The fact that she did not back down, not even when she was being cornered.
“You said you wanted me to be a duchess,” Eleanor said evenly. “A duchess should not look ill at her own wedding.”
Arabella’s eyes widened slightly.
Her father sputtered, his ears the color scarlet. “How dare you– You insolent–”
“Cream,” James said firmly.
The single word silenced everyone.
Charlotte blinked. “Your Grace?”
James turned toward the seamstress. “You can procure cream fabric in two days’ time?”
The seamstress looked terrified. “I– if I send–”
“You will send,” James said. “And you will be paid well for speed.”
Her eyes darted to Lord St. George, who looked as though he might explode.
James did not care.
He turned back to Eleanor. “Anything else?”
Eleanor held his gaze. “A simple bonnet. Not the one selected for me by my sister with the extra flowers.”
Charlotte’s cheeks flamed. “It has French lace!”
“It is excessive,” Eleanor replied.
James’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Simple hat.”
Lord St. George’s voice came out strained. “Your Grace, surely these details–”
“Are my concern,” James said coolly. “She will be my wife.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
Eleanor’s fingers stilled on the fabric. Her gaze sharpened as though she had heard something beneath them she did not trust.
Lord St. George forced a tight smile. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Charlotte looked as if she might spit.
James turned back to Eleanor one last time. “You will be ready.”
It was not a question.
Eleanor’s voice was steady. “I will.”
Lord St. George began speaking again at once, pushing forward with forced cheer, discussing guest lists and ceremony time and which clergyman held the right connections.
James listened only enough to ensure there was nothing requiring correction.
His attention kept returning to Eleanor.
The way she stood. The way she held herself as though she expected to be struck and yet would not flinch when the blow came.
Strong-willed, he thought.
But was it defiance born of strength… or defiance born of desperation?
He would know soon enough.
When the conversation reached its natural end, James cut through it cleanly. “I will see you at the wedding.”
He turned to leave.
Eleanor moved with him automatically, escorting him toward the front hall with the practiced politeness of a lady who had spent her life smoothing edges. Servants bowed as they passed. The house seemed to hold its breath.
At the door, James accepted his gloves.
Eleanor stopped just inside the threshold. “Your Grace.”
James turned.
“You have done what you came to do,” she said. “You have the license. You have my father’s compliance. You will have your wife.”
His gaze narrowed. “And?”
Eleanor’s eyes were steady. “Do not mistake that for gratitude.”
James studied her, surprised by the directness.
“I did not come seeking gratitude,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “You came seeking obedience.”
James stepped closer, close enough that her breath hitched, though she did not retreat. “I came seeking a duchess who will not collapse the moment she is tested.”
Her voice sharpened. “Then you should not have come here.”
James paused. “Why?”
“Because if you test me,” Eleanor said softly, “you may not like what you find.”
For the first time in years, James found himself without an immediate response.
Eleanor dipped into a curtsy, flawless, and stepped back. “Good day, Your Grace.”
The door closed.
And James Montague stood on the steps of St. George Manor, staring at polished wood as though it had just struck him across the face.
Speechless.
Alone.
And faintly aware that he had not chosen a meek bride at all.