Chapter 7
James arrived at All Saints’ Parish Chapel with fifteen minutes to spare.
Not a moment more.
The chapel stood quiet beneath a pale winter sky, its stone worn smooth by centuries of obedience and confession. Bells did not ring yet. They would not until he gave the signal. James exited the carriage, and adjusted his cuffs with practiced economy.
Punctuality mattered.
As he crossed the churchyard, the heavy wooden doors stood ajar. Voices carried.
Female voices.
James slowed – not from hesitation, but calculation.
“…one would think,” Charlotte was saying softly, her tone honeyed and precise, “that a duchess might make more of an effort on her wedding day.”
James stopped just short of the doorway.
Eleanor’s voice followed, quieter. “I am making an effort.”
Charlotte gave a small, delicate laugh. “If this is effort, I would loathe to see indifference. Truly, Eleanor, that fabric is barely suitable for morning calls, much less a ceremony that will be whispered about for decades.”
James stepped inside.
The sound of his boots against stone echoed louder than he intended. Charlotte turned sharply, her expression smoothing into practiced surprise.
“Your Grace,” she said. “You are early.”
“I am on time,” James replied.
Eleanor stood a few paces away, her back straight, her hands folded with unnecessary care. She wore cream, as they had agreed. The gown was simple, elegant in its restraint. No excessive lace. No needless ornament. Her hair was arranged neatly, a bonnet pinned lightly atop.
She looked composed… And stunning.
James’s gaze flicked briefly to Charlotte, whose lips pressed thin, then returned to Eleanor.
“You look very well,” he said.
The words sounded stiff, even to his own ears. Too formal. Too careful.
Eleanor’s eyes lifted to his, surprise flashing through them before she could mask it. Color bloomed across her cheeks, soft and unmistakable.
James let the hunger tighten his core.
Charlotte smiled tightly. “I was merely advising my sister – ”
“You were doing no such thing, Miss Barker,” James said evenly.
Charlotte blinked. “Your Grace?”
He did not look at her. “You will refrain from offering unsolicited opinions today. Particularly those meant to diminish my wife.”
Eleanor’s breath caught.
Charlotte’s cheeks flushed. “Of course. I meant no harm.”
“I am sure,” James replied, in a tone that suggested the opposite. Charlotte said nothing else, but her eyes followed Eleanor with a look too sharp to be dismissed as defeat.
The vicar cleared his throat nervously from the hallway.
James turned to Eleanor. “Shall we?”
She hesitated only a fraction of a second, then nodded. “Yes.”
They all moved together.
The ceremony was efficient. James preferred it that way.
The vicar’s voice echoed through the chapel, steady and reverent. Words James had heard before – at other weddings, other lives – took on a sharper clarity when spoken for him.
When he placed the ring on Eleanor’s finger, her hand trembled faintly. He felt it.
“I, James Montague – ”
The name sounded strange, suddenly public.
“I, Eleanor Barker – ”
She spoke clearly. Steadily.
When the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, there was a pause – an intake of collective breath – before the murmured approval rippled through the small congregation.
They moved to the vestry to sign the license. Roderick signed next, his bold hand unmistakable beneath the title Duke of Wycliffe, before Arabella Barker added her own careful name beside it.
“Congratulations,” Roderick murmured, leaning in. “You look like a man who just set fire to his own house.”
James ignored him, and signed the registry, sliding a pound across the desk to the vicar.
Eleanor signed last. Her hand did not shake this time.
“Congratulations, El,” Arabella said quietly, and planted a soft kiss to her sister’s cheek, then James’s cheek.
“Thank you, Arabella,” James said, with uncharacteristic gentleness.
When Eleanor and James emerged from the vestry and out of the chapel, carriages waited, and they were on their way to St. George Manor.
James stepped into the entry hall and halted.
Flowers.
Everywhere.
Blooms crowded the space in violent abundance. Roses, lilies, peonies – colors clashed and overwhelmed, arrangements competing for attention like children starved of praise. The scent was oppressive, cloying.
James’s jaw tightened.
“This,” he said quietly to Roderick, “is what happens when enthusiasm is mistaken for taste.”
Roderick snorted. “I believe this violates several unspoken laws of decency.”
Eleanor, just behind them, caught the remark.
A soft, involuntary laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
James glanced at her. She pressed her lips together, eyes bright with amusement.
Something warm flickered through him.
Lord St. George approached at once, beaming. “Magnificent, is it not?”
Charlotte stood beside him, radiant with pride. “We wanted it to feel… celebratory.”
James inclined his head. “It is certainly memorable.”
Eleanor and Arabella stood together now, both looking faintly overwhelmed. Arabella’s gaze darted about the room as though she feared the flowers might attack.
Roderick leaned in again. “If one more bouquet appears, I may suffocate.”
James allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. Eleanor noticed.
Their eyes met briefly.
It felt like sharing a secret.
The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of polite conversation and forced cheer. James ate little. He watched.
He watched Eleanor endure.
At precisely one o’clock, the church clock chimed in the distance.
James rose.
“We are leaving,” he announced.
There was a collective pause.
“Already?” Charlotte asked, startled.
“Yes.”
“But the guests – ”
“Have eaten,” James said. “And we have a journey.”
Lord St. George nodded quickly. “Of course. Of course.”
As they prepared to depart, Eleanor changed into her travel attire – a simple pelisse, sensible boots, a plain bonnet.
Charlotte’s gaze swept her dismissively. “That is… modest.”
“It is practical,” Eleanor replied.
James stepped closer. “It is perfect.”
Charlotte’s lips tightened.
Lord St. George cleared his throat. “You might have dressed her more suitably, given her new position.”
James turned slowly. “You will not comment on the Duchess’s appearance.”
The words settled heavily.
Lord St. George flushed. “Your Grace – ”
“I will not repeat myself.”
Silence followed.
James offered Eleanor his arm. She took it.
They stepped outside into a shower of rice and well-wishes. Voices rose. Hands waved. The carriage door opened.
James assisted Eleanor inside, his hand steady at her back.
As the carriage rolled away toward Blackmere Park, James caught Eleanor watching the manor recede.
Her expression was unreadable.
He sat back, opposite her, the weight of what they had done settling at last.
The door closed.
And the road stretched forward.
The carriage wheels struck the road with a steady, hypnotic rhythm that did nothing to calm Eleanor’s thoughts.
She sat opposite her husband with her gloved hands folded too neatly in her lap, her spine straight, her gaze fixed anywhere but on him. The interior smelled faintly of leather and winter air and something sharper she suspected belonged to James himself.
Married.
The word pressed in from every direction.
She felt ashamed of the spectacle, of Charlotte’s voice in the chapel, of the flowers that had swallowed the manor whole. Relieved to be away, to have the door closed on that house at last. And beneath it all, coiled tight and restless, was nerves.
James had not spoken since they left the churchyard.
Eleanor told herself she did not care.
The carriage turned.
Not sharply, but enough that Eleanor noticed the change in the angle of the light through the window.
She frowned slightly and leaned forward, peering out. “This is not the north road.”
James looked up from where he had been staring absently at the opposite wall. “No.”
Her fingers tightened in her lap. “Are we traveling all the way to Ashbourne Hall?”
His mouth curved faintly. “Good God, no.”
She blinked. “No?”
“Ashbourne is in the Lake District,” he said. “It would take days. I had no intention of dragging you halfway across England immediately after a wedding.”
“Oh,” she said, then winced inwardly at how much relief had slipped into that single syllable.
James’s gaze sharpened. “What were you thinking?”
Heat rose swiftly to her cheeks.
“Nothing,” she said too quickly.
“Nothing,” he repeated, unconvinced.
Eleanor drew a breath. “I was thinking about the journey. The weather. The horses.” She gestured vaguely. “Practicalities.”
His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary. “You are a terrible liar.”
Her pulse jumped. “I am not lying.”
“You are deflecting.”
She lifted her chin. “You did not answer my question fully.”
He arched a brow. “I did.”
“You said Ashbourne Hall is not where we are going,” she countered. “You did not say where we are going.”
A pause, then he sighed, “Blackmere Park.”
She nodded, relieved to have something solid to focus on. “I have never been there.”
“It is closer,” he said. “Suitable for now.”
“For now,” she echoed.
The carriage fell quiet again, but it was no longer empty silence. It stretched and shifted, alive with unspoken things.
When the carriage slowed at last, Eleanor looked out and her breath catch despite herself.
Blackmere Park rose ahead of them, broad and imposing, its stone facade dark against the winter sky.
It was not as vast as Ashbourne might be – she had imagined something colossal and remote – but it was undeniably grand.
The drive curved through bare trees and iron gates that closed behind them with a finality that made her spine tingle.
Servants waited in a neat line at the front steps.
James exited first, turning back to offer his hand. Eleanor took it, her fingers fitting into his with a familiarity that startled her.
“This is Blackmere,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.
The senior staff stepped forward one by one. The butler. The housekeeper. The steward. Each bowed or curtsied, their eyes flicking to Eleanor with frank assessment.
“Your Grace,” the housekeeper said. “Welcome.”
Eleanor nodded. “Thank you.”
James’s hand lingered at the small of her back as they entered. The touch was brief. Deliberate. It left her oddly unsteady.
Inside, the house was quieter than Langford House, less ornate, more purposeful. No flowers cluttered the hall. No excess. Everything had a place.
James turned to her. “You will meet the rest of the staff in due course. For now – ” He paused, as though weighing something. “There are a few expectations we should address.”
Her stomach tightened. “Expectations.”
“Rules,” he clarified.
She stiffened. “I see.”
He gestured toward a side room, empty and quiet. “In here.”
The door closed behind them.
James did not sit. Neither did she.
“There are three,” he said evenly. “They are nonnegotiable.”
Eleanor folded her hands again. “Very well.”
“First,” he said, “you will never ask where I am going.”
Her brows rose. “Ever?”
“Ever.”
She considered this. “That is… unusual.”
He did not disagree. “Second, you will never interrupt me when I am working.”
“And how,” she asked, “will I know when that is?”
“You will know.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. “Convenient.”
His gaze flickered. “Third, you will never enter the attic.”
Silence followed.
“The attic,” she repeated slowly. “Of this house, or Ashbourne, or –?”
“Yes. All.”
“May I ask why?”
“No.”
She laughed softly, incredulous. “You expect me to agree to rules without explanation?”
“I expect you to honor them.”
“And if I do not?”
His eyes darkened. “Then we will have a problem.”
Eleanor tilted her head. “Those are very few rules for a man so fond of control.”
“They are sufficient.”
“And aside from those?”
“You are free to live as you please.”
She studied him. “You mean I may do anything so long as it does not inconvenience you.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “That is one way to put it.”
“I imagine you are not accustomed to being questioned.”
“I am not accustomed to being challenged by my wife on our wedding day.”
She met his gaze steadily. “Get accustomed.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or approval. Or something else entirely.
“You are enjoying this,” she accused quietly.
“I am assessing,” he replied.
They stood too close now. Eleanor became aware of the heat of him, the way his presence crowded the air. Her breath was painfully shallow.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Her gaze dropped, traitorous, to his mouth.
James noticed.
His breath changed. Just slightly.
Eleanor’s heart hammered. She wondered – briefly, foolishly – if he would kiss her. If this was the moment when marriage would become something else entirely.
He leaned closer.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
Then he stepped back.
“Your rooms are prepared,” he said coolly. “You will wish to rest.”
Frustration flared, sharp and unwelcome.
“Yes,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm beneath it. “Of course.”
He turned toward the door.
“Your Grace,” she said, stopping him.
He paused, looking back.
“You have not said whether you intend to keep those rules forever.”
“No,” he replied. “Only until I trust you.”
She held his gaze. “And how will I know when that is?”
His eyes lingered on her face, unreadable. “You will know.”
The door closed behind him.
Eleanor stood alone in the quiet room, her heart racing, her cheeks flushed, and her mind in turmoil.
She had thought marriage would cage her.
She had not expected it to feel like a challenge.
Or that the man she had married would walk away when she most wanted him not to.