Chapter 13
In their second week of marriage, Eleanor had taken to arriving to breakfast before the tea had finished steaming.
Not because she was hungry, exactly, but because she had promised herself she would not allow James to treat their agreement like a courtesy he could forget when it pleased him.
Every morning the past four mornings, she had beat him to the dining room.
The dining room at Blackmere Park was bright with winter light that morning, pale and honest as it spilled through the tall windows and settled on the polished table.
She took her seat and waited.
The servants moved quietly, placing the silver, adjusting the linens, pouring tea with practiced care.
Footsteps approached at last. Measured. Unhurried.
James entered as if the room belonged to him and it would continue to belong to him long after everyone inside it had turned to dust. He wore a dark coat, and his cravat tied with that severe neatness that made him look carved rather than dressed.
Eleanor rose, the way she was expected to. He inclined his head.
“Husband,” she said.
“Wife,” he returned, then sat without flourish.
Eleanor watched him for half a heartbeat and decided, with the same stubborn courage that had carried her into his bedchamber on their wedding night, that she would not let silence swallow this meal.
“What is your favorite color?” she asked.
James’s fork paused mid-motion.
Across the table, the footman pouring tea stilled so abruptly that Eleanor could almost hear his thoughts. He recovered quickly and continued his work with his eyes lowered.
James looked up. “My favorite color?”
“Yes.”
His gaze held hers. “Why?”
Eleanor poured cream into her tea with careful precision, as though the question were the most reasonable thing in the world. “Because I do not know you.”
“You are married to me.”
“That does not mean I know you,” Eleanor replied. “Besides, these past four days, we have already covered topics that did not really show me who you were.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, not angry so much as… baffled. As if he could not decide whether she was being clever or foolish.
Eleanor waited.
At last, with the air of a man indulging an absurdity because it was easier than battling it, James said, “Blue.”
Eleanor’s brows lifted. “Blue?”
“Yes.”
She smiled faintly. “That was painless.”
James’s mouth tightened. “It was unnecessary.”
“Most pleasant things are,” Eleanor said.
His gaze flicked to her mouth and back to her eyes, as if he had not meant to look there and disliked that his attention had betrayed him.
Eleanor felt a small spark of triumph.
She took a bite of toast. “What is your favorite food to eat?”
James exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound just short of a sigh. “You are doing this on purpose.”
“What else are we to discuss at the only time of day I see you?” she replied easily.
He speared a piece of fruit with his fork. “Breakfast is not an excuse for an interrogation.”
“It may be,” Eleanor said lightly, “if I decide it is.”
His eyes sharpened, then, and she felt a quiet shift in his attention, the way he became fully present as if her defiance were a door that had opened and he had chosen to step through.
“You are enjoying this?” he guessed.
Eleanor tilted her head. “Are you not?”
James’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. He looked down at his plate as if it had suddenly become very interesting.
After a moment, he said, “Roast beef.”
Eleanor blinked. “Roast beef?”
“With boiled potatoes.”
“Potatoes?”
“You asked.”
“I did,” she said, unable to stop herself from smiling again. “I only did not expect you to answer so plainly.”
“Would you prefer I compose poetry about it?” he asked, dry as dust.
Eleanor’s smile widened. “No. That would be a likely disappointment.”
James looked up. “How?”
“You are not a poetic man,” she said. “You are a practical one.”
His gaze lingered a moment too long. “You presume to know me and not know me all in one. How perplexing.”
“I observe,” Eleanor corrected.
She let the words hang between them like a challenge.
James returned to eating, but Eleanor noticed he was less efficient now. His movements were still controlled, but his attention was split, as though some part of him was watching her even when his eyes were on his plate.
She reached for her teacup and tried to pretend she did not notice.
“What do you do for pleasure?” she asked.
His fork paused again and his eyes lifted, burning into hers. In a moment, his features grew darker.
“In– In your life… Is there any part of your life,” Eleanor continued, “that is not an inspection, a schedule, or a set of rules?”
James’s gaze iced over as he exhaled, the fire doused as quickly as it had been lit. “This is becoming quite tedious.”
Eleanor’s pulse stuttered, but she kept her expression calm. “Just answer.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are impertinent this morning.”
“I am allowed to be. I am your wife,” Eleanor replied.
Silence stretched. The servants moved as quietly as mice, pretending not to hear, though Eleanor knew every ear in the room was straining toward their conversation.
James set his fork down with deliberate care. “I ride,” he said.
Eleanor blinked. “That is it?”
“It is an answer. It is the truth.”
“It is,” she agreed, and softened her voice slightly. “Do you like music?”
James’s gaze did not flicker. “I tolerate it.”
Eleanor almost laughed. “That is an answer one offers about medicine, not music.”
His mouth twitched. The faintest sign that her absurd questions were beginning to slip under his defenses.
Encouraged, Eleanor asked, “Do you like dogs?”
James stared at her.
“I am compiling a complete portrait of the Duke of Langford,” Eleanor said solemnly. “Dogs are important to this endeavor.”
He looked at her as though he might be deciding whether to throw his napkin at her.
After a long moment, he said, “I do not dislike dogs.”
Eleanor leaned forward a fraction. “But do you like them?”
James’s eyes narrowed. “Do you always press when you sense weakness?”
Eleanor held his gaze. “Do you always avoid when you sense a scrap of emotion?”
His jaw tightened. The air between them sharpened.
Then James reached for his cup and took a sip of coffee, as if to restore control.
Eleanor watched him. “You are not accustomed to anyone asking you questions that are not about land or money. I am tired of asking you of such tedious topics that get me no closer to you.”
James set the cup down. “No.”
Eleanor nodded slowly, then asked more carefully, “May I ask about your family?”
The shift in him was immediate.
His face did not change dramatically. He did not scowl. He did not raise his voice.
He simply went still.
The warmth in the room seemed to retreat.
“What about my family?” James asked rather sharply.
Eleanor’s chest tightened. “Just – I’ve received a letter.”
“My aunt,” he corrected, as if that settled it.
Eleanor swallowed. “Lady Tamblyn.”
“Yes, and no doubt that was not the first letter,” he said curtly.
“She is the late Duke’s sister,” Eleanor pressed, more gently now.
“Yes,” James said softly.
The words were flat. Final. Like a door being closed.
Eleanor’s fingers curled against the tablecloth. She could feel the servants’ attention sharpen, could sense the silent strain of them pretending to be invisible.
James’s gaze remained on his plate, but he did not eat.
Eleanor steadied her breath. She could have retreated. She should have retreated.
But she had not become the Duchess of Langford to continue living as though she were not allowed to speak.
She reached for the small stack of correspondence that had been brought in earlier, sorted neatly, as her new position required she begin each day with paper and consequence.
Eleanor touched the envelope addressed from Lady Tamblyn. The seal was intact. The handwriting elegant. The kind of hand that had written hundreds of invitations and dozens of commands.
“I have not opened this one yet,” Eleanor added quickly, though she was not sure why she felt the need to reassure him.
James’s gaze remained fixed on the letter. “She writes often.”
“Would you like me to read it?” Eleanor asked.
James’s expression did not soften, but he nodded his head slightly. “I am sure I already know.”
Eleanor continued carefully, cracking the seal and unfolding the parchment. “She asks whether she is to be invited to Blackmere Park in the coming days.”
James’s jaw flexed once.
Eleanor waited.
For a moment he did not answer, and in that silence Eleanor felt the weight of all the things he refused to say: why the attic existed in his rules, why he left at night, why his name made people’s voices lower when they spoke it.
Then James said, “Yes. I believe the timing is correct.”
His chair scraped against the floor, the sound loud in the quiet room. The servants froze, then resumed their movements as if their lives depended on it.
James adjusted his cuffs with controlled precision. “Have Mrs. Hargreaves arrange the guest room,” he said, not looking at Eleanor. “And inform the steward.”
Eleanor’s mouth opened. “When will we host her?”
James did not answer directly. He simply added, “Tonight, assuredly. Her estate is only a half a day’s ride away and I know she is eager.”
Eleanor’s hands clenched. “How will you get word back to her?”
“Please, madam, you know very well how to pass word along hastily. I have work to attend to,” he said, and turned to the butler. “Graham, please see to the duchess, I have finished.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said, bowing slightly.
And without looking at her again, the Duke of Langford left the dining room.
Time did not pass so much as it rearranged itself.
The hours between breakfast and Lady Tamblyn’s arrival slipped by in a quiet procession of small duties and larger thoughts. Eleanor signed her name where it was required, nodded where it was expected, and changed gowns twice without quite remembering why.