Chapter 15
Eleanor arrived at breakfast late.
Not by accident.
She lingered in her room longer than necessary, smoothing her gown twice, braiding her hair more carefully than she had in days, and staring at her own reflection as though the glass might tell her whether she had changed overnight.
She had.
She felt it in the strange awareness of her own body, in the faint, restless warmth beneath her skin, in the way memory clung to her thoughts like perfume that would not quite fade.
By the time she entered the dining room, James was already seated.
He had not waited for her.
That, in itself, stung more than it should have.
He sat with his coat perfectly arranged, his posture precise, his attention on the paper in his hand as though the world was exactly as it had always been. He did not look up when she entered.
Eleanor paused.
Then she crossed the room and took her seat across from him.
“Husband,” she said softly.
James glanced up. “Wife.”
No hesitation. No awkwardness. No sign at all that he had stood in her room the night before, his hands warm on her skin, his voice low in her ear.
As though nothing had happened.
As though it had only happened to her.
Eleanor lowered her gaze to her plate, her appetite gone. She took a sip of tea that tasted of nothing and forced herself to breathe steadily.
They ate in silence.
The clink of cutlery against porcelain sounded far too loud in the stillness. Eleanor’s eyes prickled, and she blinked hard, determined not to let moisture gather where it did not belong.
James folded his paper, set it aside, and finally spoke.
“The land agent from Ashbourne Hall is expected this morning,” he said. “I will be occupied with him for most of the day.”
Eleanor nodded, her throat tight.
“We will also begin preparations for our departure to the country seat,” he added, voice even. “The weather is favorable, and the roads are passable.”
Her gaze lifted at that. “We are leaving now?”
“Yes.”
Eleanor hesitated. “But the Season has only just begun.”
He did not look at her as he replied. “We are already wed. We are not required to attend the Season. We have no reason to stay.”
He is not telling me something.
“We do– Well, I do, anyway,” she said quietly. “Arabella.”
His eyes flicked to hers.
“And you as well, while I think on it,” she added. “It would be noticed if we disappear. If you wished to disappear into the country, we should have gone during our bridal tour. But you wished to stay near town, so everyone will expect us.”
James considered that, his expression unreadable. For a moment she feared he would dismiss her suggestion out of hand.
Instead, he said, “We may delay.”
Eleanor’s pulse fluttered. “We may?”
“Yes,” he replied. “We will discuss it further after my aunt departs.”
Relief loosened something tight in her chest.
At that moment, footsteps approached, and Frances Stapleton entered the dining room with a cheerful greeting that instantly changed the tone of the space.
“Well, hello, my dears,” she said warmly.
Eleanor smiled, and with equal warmth greeted her, “Hello, Aunt Frances.”
James inclined his head. “Aunt Frances.”
They resumed their seats as the servants poured fresh tea.
Frances smiled at Eleanor. “You look well-rested.”
Eleanor’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”
James cleared his throat. “I will not be joining you today.”
Frances’s brows rose. “You will abandon us already?”
“I will be occupied with the land agent,” he replied. “You will have Eleanor’s company.”
“We shall survive,” Frances said lightly and winking across the table.
Eleanor smiled faintly. “I thought we might walk the gardens. Then take a carriage into town to meet the modiste at Langford House, then Luncheon at the tea house, and return to Blackmere Park for cards before dinner.”
Frances clapped her hands together. “A perfect day!”
James rose. “I will join you for dinner. Ladies.”
He nodded to Eleanor, adjusted his cuffs, and left the room.
The door closed behind him, and silence settled again.
Eleanor stared down at her plate.
She felt Aunt Frances’s gaze rest upon her.
After a moment, Frances waved the butler and footman away. “That will be all.”
The servants withdrew at once.
Frances leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and her chin upon her interlaced fingers. Her eyes gleamed with curiosity.
“Well,” she said, smirking. “Are we truly going to do all that tiresome and respectable nonsense, or are you inclined toward something more interesting?”
Eleanor set her utensils down slowly. “What did you have in mind?”
Frances lifted a brow. “Why not visit the Royal Menagerie?”
Eleanor blinked. “The menagerie?”
“Yes,” Frances said brightly. “Have you been?”
Eleanor shook her head. “No. I once wished to take my younger sister, Arabella, but it– proved… impossible.” She stopped herself short of alluding to the memory of her father’s wrath that morning.
Instead, the memory rose unbidden – quick as lightning – Charlotte’s sharp voice, her father’s fury, Arabella’s tears, the quiet punishment that followed for daring to suggest freedom.
It passed in the span of a heartbeat, but she felt the warmth on her cheek as her body recalled the searing pain of her father’s hand whipping across her face.
Frances’s hands pressed to the table softly, breaking the short reverie. “Then it is settled! We must away, my dear. Before we miss the crowd.”
Eleanor’s head tilted slightly, “Crowd?”
The two women rose and separated to dress for the day. They were in the carriage and on the way to Langford House within the hour.
The modiste’s shop stood on a Bond street in a storefront that glittered with glass windows and careful promises. Eleanor had passed it before, years ago, in a carriage that did not slow and under a title that did not grant entry.
Now the most sought after modiste in the ton met her at Langford House, her house, at her request. The door to the duchess’s rooms were opened by a young assistant who curtsied so deeply that Eleanor almost reached out to steady her.
“Your Grace,” the woman breathed, eyes shining. “Welco– err I mean, good morning, Your Grace.”
The room smelled faintly of starch and lavender, with a sweetness beneath it that suggested new silk and the quiet indulgence of wealth. Bolts of hand-picked fabric lined the walls in soft, gleaming rows.
A woman with carefully pinned hair and a tape measure draped around her neck hurried forward, her expression alight with professional delight. “Your Grace,” she said warmly. “It is an honor.”
Eleanor dipped her head slightly. “Thank you, Madame Celeste. You may begin.”
The modiste laughed and gestured Eleanor toward a raised fitting dais. “We have prepared several selections, but I confess there is one bolt I am most eager to show you.”
An assistant hurried off, searching the wall for a particular bolt of fabric.
Frances hovered nearby, her eyes dancing as she took in the room. “Oh, the modiste is my favorite to spend money on. I mean who does not love a new frock?” she murmured cheerfully.
The assistant returned moments later with a length of fabric draped carefully over her arms.
The cloth was deep navy blue, the color of evening skies before the first stars appear. Lace lay over it in a delicate pattern that caught the light, pale against the dark satin beneath.
Eleanor inhaled softly. “It is beautiful.”
“It arrived only days ago,” the modiste said, beaming. “You would be the first – and only – to wear it, Your Grace.”
Frances leaned closer her eyes alight with wonder and admiration. “How lovely, Madame Celeste! You have truly outdone yourself with this order. Do take it, my dear. It already looks like it belongs to you.”
Eleanor smiled faintly and nodded. “Yes, you are right,” she said, draping the fabric softly over one of her arms. “I will take one. Evening gown, with matching gloves.”
The modiste clapped her hands in delight, already calling instructions to her assistants.
As the preparations were made, Eleanor eyed the other bolts around the room. “Madame?” she asked softly, and the woman hurried back over to her.
Eleanor steeled herself, assuming the airs of a duchess, and not a baron’s most-hated daughter. Her shoulder rolled back as the modiste stepped in front of her eager to please.
“I find your recent work quite to my taste. I intend to place my entire seasonal order with you. We shall begin with the dinner gowns; I have a preference for the new French silks in lavender and blue. Pray, set a time with my steward for you to bring your sketches and fabric swatches, and we shall map out the rest of my requirements,” she said with a formal tone but polite grace.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” the woman agreed with a conspiratorial smile. “You are my priority, as will all of your fittings be this Season. The Duke of Langford instructed us to ensure you were provided with whatever you desired. It will be an honor to do so.”
The words landed softly, yet they stirred something bright and unsteady in Eleanor’s chest.
“A thoughtful gesture, indeed,” Eleanor managed to say without stuttering as her heart hammered in her chest.
Frances smirked. “He does have a habit of attending to matters before one thinks to ask.”
The gesture seemed small, so easily overlooked among grander acts, but it carried a weight that lingered. He had thought of her. He had arranged for this before she had even stepped into the shop.
Heat rose beneath her skin, warm and unexpected.
The modiste giggled lightly.
“She looks like a woman well cherished,” she overheard one assistant whisper the other just behind her.
Eleanor smiled to herself, unable to deny the swell of pride that accompanied the remark.
They took luncheon as the modiste, and her assistants, gathered their supplies and departed the townhouse.
The horses set off toward the Royal Menagerie not an hour later, and Frances leaned back against the seat with a satisfied sigh.
“There,” she said. “Now you are properly prepared for the Season.”
The menagerie rose before them in a flurry of movement, voices, laughter, the shuffle of feet, and the distant calls of creatures whose shapes were only partially understood by most who came to gawk at them.
“This is the ‘crowd’ I alluded to at breakfast, my dear. The early crowd,” Frances remarked, nodding toward a cluster of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen gathered near the entrance. “Those who arrive before the crush.”
Eleanor watched them with mild fascination. “They look like they are here to be seen as much as to see.”
“Precisely,” Frances said. “It is its own sort of display.”
They moved through the exhibits at an unhurried pace.
Leopards lounged behind iron bars, their eyes bright and watchful. Hissing snakes that all looked none too pleased to be in a glass box. A hyena laughed a strange, rasping sound that drew startled glances from the nearby crowd.
Eleanor lingered by a placard that read The Lion’s Provider, describing the small foxlike creature lounging in the exhibit, completely unbothered by the spectators.
“It is all rather… wild,” Eleanor murmured.
Frances nodded thoughtfully. “The ton is not so different.”
Eleanor turned and chuckled. “Not at all, Aunt Frances.”
“No, not at all,” Frances said, smiling faintly. “It is its own jungle. Everyone watching. Everyone circling. Everyone waiting for the moment to pounce.”
Eleanor considered that as she watched a pair of elegantly dressed women glide past, their eyes flicking briefly toward her before moving on.
“I suppose I am one of the new creatures on display,” she said.
Frances squeezed her arm lightly. “And you are doing very well so far.”
They wandered on, stopping to admire a pair of sleek black wolves and a brightly plumed bird whose colors seemed almost unreal.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
They spoke of small things and larger ones, of Frances’s travels, of Blackmere Park, of Eleanor’s hopes for Arabella, of the peculiarities of the ton that Frances described with amused candor.
By the time the early Spring light had begun to fade through the windows, Eleanor felt something not so familiar settle within her.
Ease.