Chapter 10
“You are drinking your tea as though it has offended you.”
Eleanor looked up from the cup she had been staring into for entirely too long. The surface of the tea had gone perfectly still, reflecting the chandelier above the breakfast table like a small, trapped sun.
James sat across from her with the same precise posture he had worn at their wedding breakfast, at the vestry table, and in the carriage. He ate as if eating were a task, not a pleasure. Knife and fork moved with measured economy. No wasted motion. No lingering.
“I have not said anything about the tea,” Eleanor replied.
“You have not had to.” His gaze dropped briefly to her untouched plate. “You have not eaten.”
“I am not hungry.”
James’s mouth tightened in a way that suggested he did not believe in appetites unless they were rational and scheduled.
He placed his fork down and reached for a folded paper at his right hand. Eleanor’s eyes followed the movement automatically. The paper looked official, the sort of thing that could contain rules, obligations, and other quiet disasters.
“This morning,” James said, “we will attend Sunday service.”
Eleanor blinked. “This morning?”
“Yes. It is Sunday.”
He unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat against the table with his palm, as though he were laying out a map before a march.
“And,” he continued, “I have arranged what will be expected of us over the next fortnight.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around her teacup. “Expected?”
“The bridal tour,” he corrected, calmly.
Of course he would concern himself with appearances.
James began, tone even, infuriatingly composed. “Tomorrow, an estate walk. Blackmere Park and its immediate grounds. We will be seen. The tenants will be made aware you are present.”
“Tomorrow,” Eleanor repeated, not because she needed clarification, but because the word helped her keep hold of the conversation.
“Friday as well,” he added, as if Fridays were simply another item to be managed. “A second walk, longer route.”
Eleanor’s gaze flicked to the tall windows. Frost sat at their edges. The grounds beyond looked hard and still and cold.
“And on Tuesday evening,” James said, “there will be entertainment in the drawing room.”
Eleanor’s stomach tightened. “Entertainment?”
“Yes. You will play.”
She stared at him. “Play what?”
“Whatever you play,” he replied, as though that were perfectly sufficient. “A harp would be ideal, but the instrument of your choosing will do.”
Eleanor almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat. He was arranging her like furniture.
James continued without pause. “Wednesday and Thursday, afternoon promenades.”
“In town?” Eleanor clarified, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
His gaze lifted, sharpened faintly. “Yes. In the ton.”
Eleanor swallowed. She had only just escaped it. She had only just closed the carriage door on Charlotte’s voice and her father’s scowl and the oppressive perfume of St. George Manor’s rotten excess. The idea of returning so soon made her chest tighten.
James’s voice remained calm. “You will appear at the appropriate hour. You will be seen with me. You will be greeted as the Duchess of Langford. No one will think to challenge this match.”
Eleanor’s fingers curled around her napkin.
“As for social readings,” he went on, “there will be at least one. Small. Controlled. Guests of your choosing.”
“Controlled,” Eleanor repeated.
James did not acknowledge the echo. “And there will be inspections. Blackmere Park first. Langford House after. The household must be reviewed.”
Eleanor stared down at her plate, then at the paper in front of him, and tried to arrange the information into something her mind could tolerate.
Sunday service. Tomorrow estate walk. Tuesday performance. Wednesday and Thursday promenades in the ton. Friday estate walk again. Social readings. Inspections. Dinner with a land agent he had hauled down from the Lake District like a piece on a chessboard.
Every day. Another task.
The schedule grew in her mind, not as a list but as a corridor lined with closed doors. Each door held an obligation. Each door needed her to be present, smiling, graceful, unblemished.
James’s voice droned on, steady and relentless, and Eleanor felt herself drifting into a peculiar haze where words became sound rather than meaning.
He spoke of timing and appearance and the land agent’s expected arrival. He spoke of which street would be most visible for promenades.
Eleanor listened, but she did not hear.
Her attention slid instead to the small, human details of him. The way his hands remained controlled even when he spoke. The way he did not glance around the room as if seeking approval. The way he looked at the schedule like a weapon.
He was doing this for a reason, not for romance.
To make the marriage appear sound, and silence the ton.
Eleanor’s gaze drifted, unbidden, to the line of his throat above his collar.
She remembered the kiss from the night before. The sudden force of it. The way his hand had held her as though he had forgotten himself. The moment he had stopped, as if some invisible boundary had snapped taut.
Her cheeks warmed.
She took a sip of tea too quickly and nearly scalded her tongue.
James paused mid-sentence.
Eleanor looked up, startled, and found him watching her with that unsettling precision he used to read her face as if it were a ledger he already knew how to balance.
He set the paper down.
“Was there a question you had regarding this schedule?” he asked. “You are awfully silent.”
Eleanor blinked, her mind scrambling to return to the present. “I was listening.”
“You were not,” he replied.
Her jaw tightened. “I was.” Eleanor hesitated, then chose honesty because she did not yet know what else to choose with him. “Well, what am I meant to do in between?”
A pause.
James’s brows drew together, faint irritation creasing his forehead. “Is that not enough activity for you, Duchess?”
The title sounded pointed in his mouth, as though he had sharpened it deliberately.
Heat rose in Eleanor’s cheeks. She forced herself not to flinch. “That is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I meant,” Eleanor said carefully, “that if we are to be seen, if I am to perform, if we are to host, attend, inspect, promenade, and do all the rest, then there will still be hours of the day where I am… present. Where I must occupy myself. And I do not know what you expect of me.”
James’s gaze remained fixed on her. “I expect you to adapt.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened against her napkin. “Adapt to what, precisely?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “To being a duchess.”
The air in the room felt suddenly thinner.
Eleanor looked down, then back up again. She changed her approach the way she would have changed her posture under Norman’s scrutiny. She softened her tone, tempered her expression, smoothed the edges of herself into something more palatable.
“Thank you,” she said, voice lighter, “for organizing such a thorough bridal tour.”
James’s gaze flicked, as though he had noticed the shift. “You are welcome.”
Eleanor kept going, determined not to be pushed into defensiveness again. “I only wished to ensure I do not misstep. I am new to… all of this.”
“Yes, you are new to being a duchess, but you have been raised well. You know how to act.”
Eleanor pressed on, carefully. “Is there any task I can take on that would unburden you.”
For the first time, his mouth curved, but it was not warmth. It was a faint, dry amusement.
“Unburden me,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
James leaned back slightly. “Perhaps starting by learning Blackmere Park will fill your… free time… Duchess.”
The pause before the title was deliberate. He was being facetious. He knew it. She knew it.
Eleanor forced herself to smile anyway. “I should be glad to learn it.”
“You should.”
His gaze dropped to her plate again. “Eat.”
“I am not hungry.”
“You will be,” he said, and resumed buttering a piece of toast as if her appetite were a minor obstacle he could plan around.
Eleanor stared at him across the table.
She had asked the simplest question in the world. What was she meant to do with herself in the hours that were not filled by appearances.
And his answer had been to remind her that he expected her to manage her own existence without troubling him.
Her fingers curled. She straightened her spine.
“I will not misstep,” Eleanor added, because she could not help herself.
James studied her for a long moment. “See that you do not.”
Eleanor set her teacup down with controlled care.
James rose, smoothing his coat. “We will depart within the hour.”
Eleanor stood as well, because remaining seated felt like surrender. “Very well.”
James paused at the end of the table, his gaze lingering on her face. For a moment, she thought he might say something else. Something human.
Instead, he inclined his head once, polite as a stranger. Then he left the room.
Eleanor remained standing, staring at the doorway after him.
The house was quiet again, save for the distant clink of servants clearing dishes.
A bridal tour.
A schedule of appearances.
A performance of harmony.
Eleanor drew in a slow breath and let it out carefully.
“All Saints is a long service,” Arabella had once whispered to her, years ago, with the solemn authority of someone who had survived it more than once. “Do not fidget. Father will notice.”
Eleanor had smiled at the time.
She did not smile now.
The ducal pew stood slightly elevated, framed by carved oak that seemed designed to remind everyone within sight that rank could be measured not only by land and title but by the distance between one’s knees and the floor.
“Wife,” James said, holding his hand out to gesture her inside the pew. The moment she stepped into it; she felt the weight of attention settle over her like a cloak.
Eyes turned. Heads inclined. A murmur rippled faintly through the nave before discipline returned.