Chapter 8
He did not come to her that night.
Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, listening to the low, distant hush of Blackmere Park settling for the night. Somewhere below her window, a groom led a horse into the stables. A door closed softly. Footsteps faded. The house exhaled into quiet.
And still he did not come.
“Come on, El. What are you doing?” she said to herself.
She shifted, smoothing her skirt again though it did not need smoothing, and glanced toward the door for the hundredth time. The candles on her dressing table burned steadily, their light throwing gentle shadows across the walls and the pale coverlet.
Married, her mind whispered again. Her chest tightened at the thought.
Perhaps he expected her in his room, or should she be in his room?
The possibility slid into her thoughts and refused to leave. She stood slowly, pacing the length of the carpet. Three steps to the window. Turn. Three steps back to the bed. Turn. The rhythm did nothing to quiet her.
She had not been told what to do.
No instructions had been given. No awkward conversation. No gentle warning. The housekeeper had simply shown her to these rooms, curtsied, and left her with a soft, unreadable smile.
If her mother were alive, Eleanor thought, she would not be standing here like this. She would have been told what to expect. What to say. What to do with her hands, her voice, her heart. She would have been prepared.
And Gwen –
If Gwen were here, Eleanor would already know. Gwen would have spoken frankly, kindly, perhaps with a little laughter to soften the edges of what must surely be strange and frightening and important.
Eleanor pressed her palms together. “This is ridiculous,” she murmured.
She straightened and went to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the corridor.
Empty.
The lamps along the walls cast soft pools of light over the rugs. Everything smelled faintly of wax and clean linen. The house was immense and watchful, as though it were holding its breath.
James had said not to interrupt him when he was working.
And he had said not to ask where he was going.
He had not said she could not look for him.
Eleanor closed her door quietly and stepped into the corridor.
She knew where his study was. She had been shown it earlier that evening, during the formal, polite tour. The door lay at the end of the east corridor, where the house grew quieter and the air cooler.
Her footsteps sounded far too loud.
When she reached the door, she slowed, then stopped.
Light glowed beneath the threshold.
He was inside.
Her hand hovered, uncertain, then fell back to her side.
Do not interrupt him when he is working.
She leaned against the wall opposite the door instead, folding her arms, her gaze fixed on the seam of light at the floor.
He could not possibly work all night, she reasoned.
Minutes passed. Or perhaps it was longer. Time stretched in strange, fluid ways when she was alone with her thoughts.
Her mind wandered again, unhelpfully. What was she supposed to feel?
Anticipation? Fear? Relief? All three tangled together. She was a duchess now, with rooms of her own and servants who curtsied to her, and yet she felt like the same girl who had been ordered to carry invitations through her father’s house.
Her marriage had happened so quickly. She had barely had time to understand that she belonged to another life now, another house, another man.
James.
Her husband.
The word made her stomach flutter, unsteady and strange.
The door across from her opened.
Eleanor startled, straightening too quickly.
James stepped into the corridor, the lamplight catching the dark line of his coat, the white of his collar. He looked composed, as always, his expression unreadable. He did not see her at first.
He turned to close the study door.
Eleanor swallowed. “Your Grace?”
He looked up sharply. “Your Grace?”
Heat rushed to her face. “I – ”
He studied her, taking in her pale gown, the tension in her posture, the way she stood there as though she had been waiting.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” she said quickly. Then, more softly, “I mean… I was waiting.”
He hesitated. “For me.”
“Yes.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, slow and unmistakable.
“I was – ” He stopped, then began again. “I had work to finish.”
“I know,” Eleanor said. “I remembered your rules.”
He glanced briefly at the study door, then back at her. “You were standing here the entire time?”
She nodded, suddenly very aware of how foolish that must look.
His mouth tightened, though not unkindly. “You should not have waited in the corridor.”
“I did not know what else to do,” she said honestly.
A quiet fell between them, different from the one in the carriage, heavier somehow.
James gestured down the corridor. “Come.”
She followed him without question.
His rooms were darker than hers, more austere. Heavy furniture, deep shadows, a single lamp casting amber light across a desk scattered with papers. The bed stood against the far wall, neatly turned down.
He closed the door behind them.
Eleanor’s heart thudded.
She took a breath. “I might not know very much about what a wedding night entails,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, “but I believe it should at least include a kiss.”
His brows rose slightly.
“I am your wife,” she continued, lifting her chin. “Whatever happens, I will do my duty.”
Silence filled the room.
James studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “You believe obligation is the same as desire?”
“I believe,” she said, “that it must begin somewhere.”
He stepped closer.
Her breath caught.
He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the steady focus of his eyes. For a fleeting, breathless moment, Eleanor thought he might lean down and close the distance.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
Then he straightened.
“Go to bed,” he said quietly. “I will not take what you offer out of obligation and ignorance.”
Her cheeks flamed. “That is not what I meant.”
“I know,” he replied. “Which is precisely why I will not.”
She stared at him, frustration and something more dangerous coiling inside her. “You make this unnecessarily difficult.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You make it interesting.”
She stood there and silence filled his room.
James sighed and started loosening his cravat, “What is it that you want, Eleanor?”
His voice was calm, but it carried weight, as though the question itself were a boundary being tested. Her name on his lips did something to her that she did not quite understand.
Eleanor hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it. The room seemed smaller now, the lamplight warmer, the air heavier.
If she did not move now, she would lose the courage altogether.
She crossed the space between them.
James’s brows drew together slightly. “Eleanor – ”
She rose onto her toes and brushed her lips against his.
It was brief – shorter than she had intended, long enough that she felt the shape of his mouth before she lost her nerve. A simple, tentative peck that ended almost as soon as it began.
But when she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her breath uneven, and she found his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her stomach flutter.
His expression was not cold now.
It was startled. Searching. And something else – something she did not yet have a name for, but which made her pulse quicken all the same.
Neither of them spoke.
James moved first.
He reached out and drew her closer, his hand warm and steady at her back, and kissed her again – this time with an assurance that stole the air from her lungs.
His touch framed her face, careful yet unyielding, as though he were trying to confirm that she was real, that the moment had not been imagined.
Eleanor’s fingers curled into his coat without conscious thought.
A soft sound escaped her – more breath than voice – and James stilled at once.
The room seemed to hold its breath with them.
Slowly, he eased back, his hands still resting at her waist, his gaze searching her face.
Eleanor blinked, her heart racing. “Did I –” She stopped, exhaled, then tried again. “Was that wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately. Then, after a pause, “You did nothing wrong.”
She studied his face, trying to understand the sudden restraint, the way his posture had shifted from tension to distance in the span of a breath.
“Then why did you stop?” she asked quietly.
James exhaled through his nose, a controlled breath. “Because this is not something I take lightly.”
Her brows drew together. “I am your wife.”
“I know.”
“Then I do not understand.”
He hesitated, clearly choosing his words with care. “There are… expectations tied to a wedding night.”
“Yes,” she said, voice steady despite the heat in her cheeks. “That is precisely what I wished to ask you about.”
His gaze sharpened. “You wished to ask me?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, he only stared at her, as though he had not expected boldness from her again so soon.
“You are remarkably direct,” he said at last.
“I am remarkably unprepared,” Eleanor replied. “No one thought it necessary to explain anything to me.”
James looked away, jaw tightening briefly. “That is… unfortunate.”
“James,” she said softly, and his name on her lips felt strangely intimate, “will we have an heir?”
The words settled heavily in the quiet room.
He turned back to her slowly. “No.”
Her breath caught. “No?”
“No,” he repeated.
She searched his face. “You do not intend to – ”
“I will not claim you,” he said, his tone measured. “Not in that way.”
Her heart sank, though she could not have said precisely why. “Then why did you marry me?”
He met her gaze squarely. “Because I required a duchess,” he said. “And because the alternative would have invited questions I did not intend to answer.”
The bluntness of it struck her harder than she expected.
“Only that?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
She swallowed. “You did not marry me for… anything else.”
“No.”
Silence stretched between them.
Her pride stung sharply, embarrassment creeping up her spine. She straightened her shoulders. “I see.”
James’s voice softened, though only slightly. “This arrangement serves us both.”
“Does it?” she asked.
“It will protect your sister,” he said. “It will remove you from your father’s house. It will give you position and independence.”
“And you?” she asked.
“It will give me what I need.”
She nodded once, slowly. “I understand.”
He did not reach for her again.
Eleanor stepped back, smoothing her gown with hands that trembled despite her efforts to steady them. “Good night, Your Grace.”
He stepped around her and walked to the door, opening it slowly. “Good night, Your Grace.”
She hesitated, then turned and left, her steps quick and stiff with pride she was not certain she possessed.
The door closed behind her like a punctuation on the entire conversation. It left no room for any second guesses or misinterpretation, and she left without looking back.
Her room greeted her with quiet and candlelight, the bed turned down, the coverlet smooth and waiting. Eleanor shut the door too hard, then stood there resenting the sound she had made.
She leaned against it, her heart still racing, her cheeks warm, her mind crowded with questions she had not known to ask before this night. She forced herself to breathe evenly.
She had known this marriage was not built on romance, but knowing and feeling were not the same.
It was that he had touched her as though he very nearly might have.
And then chosen to walk away.