Chapter 9
James did not move at once when the door to Eleanor’s room closed.
He stood in the center of his bedchamber, his hands flexed loosely at his sides, his breath still too shallow, the ghost of her warmth lingering like a bruise beneath his skin. The house had settled again into its careful quiet, but he could hear her.
Footsteps.
Soft, restless.
Back and forth.
His jaw tightened.
“You may as well come in,” he said.
The valet entered without hesitation, closing the door softly behind him, drink in hand for James.
Thomas had served him since boyhood, long before James had inherited the dukedom, and longer still before grief had hardened into discipline.
Thomas’s presence was as constant as the estate walls themselves.
“You are awake, then,” Thomas observed mildly.
“That is to be expected... She is pacing.”
Thomas did not ask who. He moved to the sideboard and poured a measured glass of water. “That is also to be expected.”
James smirked and accepted the glass but did not drink. “Nonsense.”
Thomas glanced at him. “But it is.”
James’s mouth tightened. “She is not accustomed to uncertainty.”
“No woman is,” Thomas said, and adjusted the cuff of James’s shirtsleeve as if he were correcting something that had been crooked for years. “Particularly not on her wedding night.”
James’s gaze snapped to him. “Do not sentimentalize it.”
Thomas did not flinch. He merely looked toward the door separating James’s rooms from Eleanor’s, as though he could hear the same restless steps. “I am not. I am stating fact.”
James took one slow breath. He did not drink the water. His throat was dry anyway, as though the kiss had taken something from him that could not be replaced by brandy or propriety.
He had kissed her.
Not carefully.
Not the way he had intended.
As a man who had forgotten how to stop.
The memory returned with humiliating clarity: Eleanor’s lips, soft and unsure at first, then steadier when he drew her close. The slight sound she had made, half breath, half surrender was small enough that she might not have meant it, and still it had struck him like a hand to the chest.
James set the glass down with more force than necessary.
Thomas watched him with the quiet patience of someone who had witnessed far worse than desire.
“You meant to keep distance,” Thomas said at last.
James’s jaw flexed. “I did.”
“And yet you did not.”
James’s gaze sharpened. “Be careful.”
Thomas nodded once, accepting the warning without fear. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The title sounded formal on Thomas’s tongue, not deferential. It was a reminder. A boundary. A way of saying: I know you are not merely a man.
James turned away, pacing once, only once, before stopping near the window. The night outside was cold and still, the grounds dark beyond the faint reflections in the glass.
“She asked me something,” James said. He paused, then added, “About an heir.”
Thomas’s brows lifted slightly. “That was bold.”
“She is bold,” James replied, then immediately regretted the admission.
Thomas pretended not to notice. “And what did you say?”
“No,” James said flatly.
Silence followed. Not shock, not disapproval – only the quiet in which Thomas always weighed the truth of James’s decisions. Society liked to pretend succession was romantic and every mother’s daughter was expecting for it to be the only outcome of a marriage. James knew better.
He continued, as if reciting a list he had already rehearsed in his own mind. “A ducal marriage is meant to secure succession. I am not ignorant of that.”
“No, Your Grace,” Thomas said quietly. “You are rarely ignorant of anything.”
James’s mouth tightened. “If I do not produce an heir, the line fractures. The title passes beyond the reach of anyone I know.”
Thomas inclined his head. “Then you are accepting that risk.”
James’s fingers curled against the windowsill. “I am acknowledging it.”
“That is not the same thing, Your Grace,” Thomas said gently.
James turned slightly. “What would you have me do? Marry for the sole purpose of producing a child I would barely know? With so much work to do?”
Thomas did not answer at once. “Well, what do you believe will take the place of an heir, Your Grace?”
James stilled.
“The estate cannot run on principle alone,” Thomas continued. “Nor can a title endure on intention.”
James exhaled sharply. “Ashbourne is solvent. The land is well managed. I have secured its future in every way that can be measured.”
“Yes,” Thomas agreed. “Except the one that cannot.”
James closed his eyes briefly.
“I am not built for the sort of marriage that treats a wife as insurance,” he said at last. “Nor a child as obligation.”
Thomas’s voice softened. “Then you are gambling that stewardship will be remembered more kindly than blood.”
James did not respond.
Outside the door, Eleanor’s footsteps paused, then resumed, quicker than before.
James’s chest tightened.
“The irony,” James said, “is that an heir should be the goal regardless. The estate deserves continuity. Ashbourne deserves it. The title deserves it.”
“And you?” Thomas asked softly.
James’s gaze remained on the window. “I do not matter,” he said, then frowned slightly, as though the phrasing itself irritated him. “Not in the way you mean.”
Thomas’s expression changed, only a fraction, but James saw it. Not pity. Never pity. Something like quiet defiance on James’s behalf.
“You matter,” Thomas said.
James’s voice went colder. “Do not argue.”
“I will not argue,” Thomas replied. “I will remind. There is a difference.”
James exhaled through his nose, as though even breathing required discipline. “There is another issue.”
“Annulment,” Thomas said at once.
James’s eyes narrowed. “You are anticipating.”
“I am preparing,” Thomas corrected. “It is my trade.”
James turned from the window. “Annulment is rare.”
“Extremely,” Thomas agreed. “And scandalous.”
“Still possible.”
“Possible,” Thomas echoed. “If the marriage is not consummated, and if the bride chooses to pursue it, and if the right people become involved.”
James’s jaw tightened. “She will not pursue it.”
Thomas raised a brow. “Will she not?”
James hesitated.
Eleanor had stood in his room with her pride held like a weapon, asking him with startling courage what he intended of her, offering duty because it was the only language she had been taught. She was not a woman who did nothing.
“I do not believe she would seek annulment,” James said.
Thomas’s gaze was calm. “Perhaps not. But Lord St. George may.”
James’s mouth thinned. “He despises her.”
“He despises losing,” Thomas replied. “And he despises being made to look foolish before the ton. If he believes he can regain control by challenging the marriage, he may attempt it. Not because he loves his daughter. Because he resents you.”
James felt a cold spark of anger. “Let him try.”
Thomas nodded. “It would not succeed easily. But even a failed attempt would feed gossip.”
James turned away again, restless. Eleanor’s footsteps slowed. Then stopped. Then started again, as though she had reached the far wall and found it unsatisfying.
“Gossip,” James murmured.
Thomas’s voice turned faintly sardonic. “Yes. The ton’s preferred religion.”
James’s lip curled. “I do not care about the ton.”
Thomas regarded him. “You care about consequence.”
James did not answer at once because it was true.
A duke could survive scandal more easily than a new duchess. Particularly one who had already been made a target by her own household. Society forgave powerful men. It devoured women who did not know how to defend themselves.
He had married Eleanor Barker for utility. He had told her as much.
And yet he could not stomach the thought of her being ruined for a choice he had pushed her into completing.
“Even in a loveless marriage,” Thomas continued, “a duke’s primary duty is to maintain his position. Not because society deserves it, but because the estate requires stability. Influence is a tool. Scandal dulls the blade.”
James’s gaze lifted. “And the new Duchess?”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. “She is… not fragile.”
“No,” James said, the word almost grudging.
“But she is new,” Thomas added. “And the ton will be looking for proof that the marriage is as rushed and ill-made as they hope. If you remain in London too long, if you return to your club, if you are seen as detached – ”
“It will be assumed there is discord,” James finished.
“And that she is the cause,” Thomas said.
James’s jaw clenched. The idea of Eleanor being blamed for his choices struck him with an anger that did not fit neatly into any category he preferred.
“I considered taking her to Ashbourne Hall,” James admitted.
Thomas’s brows lifted. “A true bridal tour.”
“Yes,” James said, as though the term tasted unpleasant. “A proper interval. A respectable disappearance. It would silence speculation.”
Thomas nodded slowly. “And it would place you too far from London.”
“Too far from Blackmere Park,” James corrected, though he meant the same thing. “Too far from Roderick. Too far from the investigation.”
Thomas studied him. “And too far from your own office.”
James’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”
Eleanor’s footsteps stopped again.
James’s gaze flicked to the adjoining wall as if he might see through it.
“She is alone,” he said.
Thomas’s voice remained neutral, but his eyes were keen. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“I did not intend – ” James stopped. Corrected himself. “This arrangement was meant to be clean.”
Thomas’s expression did not change. “Arrangements are clean on paper.”
James’s hands flexed again at his sides, as though he could shake off the lingering warmth of her mouth.
Thomas moved closer, low-voiced now, conspiratorial in the way he had been when James was a boy, and the world still made sense in simpler categories. “Then we construct the appearance of a bridal tour without traveling to Ashbourne Hall.”
James looked at him sharply.
Thomas continued, already thinking about schedules and optics. “A week or two of controlled visibility. You and the Duchess seen where you must be seen. Not too much, not too little.”
James’s attention sharpened. “Go on.”
Thomas ticked it off quietly, efficient as a ledger. “Afternoon promenades. Sunday services. Blackmere Park and Langford House estate walks. A dinner with the Ashbourne Hall land agent – brought down here for the purpose.”
James’s gaze narrowed. “You would have him travel?”
“He will travel if you command it,” Thomas replied.
James considered. The land agent would be a visible link to the principal seat, even if they did not go. It would suggest continuity. Responsibility. Marriage integrated into the dukedom’s operations.
Thomas continued, voice steady. “Evening entertainment in the drawing room. The Duchess plays while you listen, and then might be interrupted with business.”
James’s mouth tightened. “Surely she plays.”
Thomas’s eyes flicked to him. “Even a baron’s daughter will have some knowledge of an instrument. I can ask her previous maid.”
James did not like that Thomas had ways of finding things out in such ways, when he did not, but he could not deny the utility.
Thomas added, “A social reading opportunity. A small gathering. Respectable. Controlled. And then – ”
“Inspections,” James finished, the thought forming with satisfaction. “Blackmere Park estate inspection. Langford House inspection. That will bring us back into town when needed.”
Thomas nodded. “Precisely.”
James stood very still.
On the other side of the wall, Eleanor’s pacing resumed, slower now, as if fatigue had finally begun to press against her pride.
James’s gut tightened again.
He stared toward the door, imagining her alone in her bed, eyes open, thoughts spinning the way his were.
He had told her he would not take what she offered out of obligation.
That had been true.
What he had not said, what he could not say, was that if he took her, he was not entirely sure he would stop at a single night. Or a single heir. Or a single purpose.
Desire was a kind of risk.
And James Montague did not tolerate risks he could not measure.
He turned back to Thomas. “We will not go to Ashbourne Hall.”
Thomas nodded once. “Very good, Your Grace.”
“But the facade will be maintained,” James said.
“Yes.”
James exhaled, the decision settling into place as cleanly as any other. “We begin immediately.”
Thomas’s mouth curved faintly. “As you wish.”
James glanced again toward the adjoining wall. “She will be seen as settled.”
“And cherished,” Thomas added, quietly.
James’s gaze sharpened. “Careful.”
Thomas bowed his head slightly. “Forgive me. A duchess must appear cherished.”
James held his stare for a moment, then looked away, irritation stirring because the word had landed too close to something he did not want examined.
“Yes,” James said. “Appear.”
He moved toward the sideboard, removed his cravat with controlled motions, and handed his coat to Thomas. The valet took it as though James’s restlessness was just another garment to manage.
“We will need the steward,” James said.
Thomas nodded immediately. “Tonight?”
“Now,” James replied. “I want the schedule prepared before morning.”
Thomas stepped toward the bellpull, then paused. “Your Grace.”
James looked up.
Thomas’s expression was mild, but his eyes were sharp. “You should sleep. If only to be able to pretend you have.”
James’s mouth tightened. “I will sleep when the house is secure.”
Thomas inclined his head. “Your Grace.”
He pulled the bell.
The sound echoed faintly.
James stood in the dim lamplight, listening again to Eleanor’s footsteps next door, and felt a strange, unwelcome certainty settle in his chest.
Still pacing.
This marriage was not going to remain clean.
Not with Eleanor Barker on the other side of a wall.
And as the household stirred quietly to obey, James found himself staring at the door to Eleanor’s rooms with an intensity he would have called dangerous in any other man.