Chapter 6 #2
“And soon,” Roderick said, “you will have a wife who can absorb half of them, if you allow it.”
James’s mouth flattened. “If I allow it.”
Roderick let out a dramatic sigh. “There it is. The Duke of Langford, guarding his ledgers as though they are his heart.”
James ignored him.
By late morning, the estate rose before them, austere and imposing against the winter sky.
Blackmere Park
The main house sat on a low rise, built of pale stone that looked almost silver in cold light. Its lines were clean, severe, and unmistakably old. There was no frivolity in its architecture. It did not charm. It commanded.
Roderick’s brows lifted appreciatively as they approached. “You could house an army in there.”
“I have,” James said.
Roderick glanced at him, amused. “That was not a request for history.”
“It is not history,” James replied. “It is memory.”
They dismounted in the front court, handing the horses off to grooms who moved with practiced efficiency. The household had been alerted to James’s arrival. Graham stood ready. A footman opened the great doors before James reached them.
Inside, the air smelled of wax and stone and something faintly metallic, like old keys.
James walked through the entrance hall without pause, already listing what must be addressed before he could return to town.
There were tenant petitions to review. A boundary dispute with a neighboring earl. A shipment of timber delayed at the docks. Two chimneys that had begun to smoke improperly in the east wing. And the steward’s latest accounts, which James trusted only as far as he could verify them himself.
The steward met him in the morning room with a stack of papers and a face lined with worry.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Pritchard said, bowing. “I am grateful you have come.”
James accepted the papers without comment. “Begin.”
They spent the next hours moving through the estate’s pulse points, each conversation a small thread in the web James kept tightly wound.
The steward’s reports were precise. The rents had come in. The winter stores were adequate. A tenant farmer’s eldest son had broken his leg and would not manage the plowing in time for early spring.
James made notes, asked questions, issued decisions.
A land agent arrived with maps and ink-stained fingers, outlining the boundary dispute. James studied the documents, finding the flaw in the opposing claim within minutes.
“Send this back,” he said, tapping the line. “They will withdraw.”
The agent blinked. “Just like that?”
“Yes,” James said. “They are relying on intimidation,” James said, already reaching for the pencil. “We will rely on the map they forgot to read.”
Roderick watched from a chair with his brandy, looking entertained.
When they toured the stables, James spoke with the head groom about breeding and feed, then walked the perimeter where repairs were needed. He spoke with the housekeeper about linens, staffing, and the east wing, where dust still gathered in rooms no one entered.
At midday they ate in James’s private dining room, a simple meal set with understated precision.
Roderick lifted his fork. “Do you ever relax?”
“No.”
Roderick chewed thoughtfully. “Your future duchess will have an opinion about that.”
James’s hand paused on his glass. “She will adapt.”
Roderick grinned. “Will she?”
James set the glass down. “There will be ground rules.”
Roderick’s brows rose. “Ground rules?”
“Until I know her,” James said. “Until I can trust her with the estate’s affairs.”
Roderick nodded solemnly, as though this were the most sensible thing in the world. “Naturally. A woman cannot be expected to understand accounts and tenants and–”
“–and influence,” James finished, his gaze sharpening. “This estate is not merely land,” James said. “It decides who waits and who does not. Who eats in winter. Who listens.”
Roderick waved his fork. “Exactly. Women are too soft for such things.”
James did not contradict him, though some distant part of his mind produced the image of Eleanor Barker’s eyes, steady and unflinching, and the quiet steel in her voice.
If you test me…
Soft, she had not been.
“Ground rules,” Roderick continued enthusiastically. “She must not interfere in business. She must not be overly curious. She must know her place in the household.”
James’s jaw tightened. “She will not be meek.”
Roderick laughed. “Even better. Meek women are dull.”
James stared at him. “Do not be inconsistent.”
“I am not inconsistent,” Roderick said cheerfully. “I am realistic. A wife can be spirited and still stay out of the ledger books.”
James leaned back slightly. “She will be expected to learn.”
Roderick blinked. “You just said–”
“I said,” James corrected, “until I trust her.”
Roderick nodded vigorously, completely satisfied. “Yes. Trust first. Education later.”
After the meal, they escaped to the east wing.
It was quieter there. Colder. Less disturbed by the constant movement of servants and duties. The corridor smelled faintly of old lavender and neglect.
At the end, behind a locked door, lay the suite that had belonged to his mother.
James dismissed the footman who had followed him with keys. “Leave us. Leave those,” he said, and the man set the keys on the dresser and withdrew at once.
Roderick followed, whistling softly. “I have not been in here since–”
“Do not,” James said.
Roderick sobered. “Of course.”
James unlocked the door himself.
The room inside was preserved, as if time had been halted by grief. The curtains were drawn, the furniture shrouded, the air stale with silence. James crossed to the dressing table, where a mahogany box sat untouched.
His mother’s dowry jewels.
He opened it slowly.
The velvet lining revealed diamonds and pearls that caught what little light filtered through the curtains. There were sapphires the color of midnight. Emeralds like crushed leaves. Rings and brooches and necklaces arranged with careful order, as though she might return at any moment to select one.
James’s fingers hovered, then moved with intent.
He chose a necklace.
A yellow diamond, warm as candlelight, set in a delicate chain with smaller stones that flanked it like stars. It was striking without being gaudy. Powerful without vulgarity.
Roderick leaned closer, whistling under his breath. “That is–”
“Appropriate,” James said.
“For a woman you barely know?” Roderick teased, though his voice had softened.
James ignored him.
He held the necklace in his palm and saw, unbidden, Eleanor’s face. The contrast of that warm gold against her skin. The way it would draw attention to her eyes.
Brown, he thought.
Not the pale insipid brown of weak tea, but rich and deep, like polished wood. Like earth after rain.
It would enhance them.
It would mark her.
A duchess.
A wife.
James closed the box carefully, then reopened it just enough to place the necklace in its own smaller case.
Roderick watched him, smile faint. “You are thinking about her again.”
James shut the lid with finality. “No.”
Roderick’s grin widened. “Liar.”
James tucked the case under his arm. “We return to town.”
“And the ground rules?” Roderick asked, mounting his horse as they left the house behind. “When will you deliver them to your bride?”
James’s gaze fixed forward, the road stretching ahead like a promise.
“Soon,” he said.
And as Blackmere vanished behind them into the night, James found himself thinking not of rules, or licenses, or investigations.
But of Eleanor Barker standing on her father’s doorstep, voice steady, daring him to test her. And how, for reasons he refused to name, he was already tempted to do exactly that.