Chapter 16
Lady Tamblyn departed with the same brisk authority with which she had arrived.
There were embraces in the entrance hall, Frances’s hands warm on Eleanor’s cheeks as she kissed her farewell. There was a last, quick instruction to the housekeeper about a parcel to be forwarded, and a final, pointed glance at James that Eleanor could not quite interpret.
“Do not brood,” Frances told him, as if she were speaking to a boy rather than a duke. “It is unbecoming.”
James’s mouth tightened. “Safe travels, Aunt Frances.”
“And you, my dear,” Frances replied, smoothing the sleeve of Eleanor’s pelisse with maternal satisfaction, “behave as though you belong here. Because you do.”
Eleanor managed a smile. “I shall.”
Frances stepped into her carriage, the footman shutting the door with a decisive click. The horses moved off, wheels crunching over the gravel until the sound faded into the winter air.
Eleanor lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, watching the drive empty. She felt the absence immediately. The house seemed to settle in on itself, quieter, more watchful.
James did not linger. He offered Eleanor a brief nod and turned back toward the interior, already shifting into the manner of a man who preferred the world to be arranged and predictable.
Which, Eleanor thought, was precisely why Frances had been such a relief.
She turned from the door and stepped back into Blackmere Park.
The afternoon had barely begun when Graham approached her in the morning room, his expression careful.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “Lord St. George. Miss Barker. And a Miss Barker.”
Eleanor’s spine stiffened at once.
It was not that she had not expected them.
In truth, she had been waiting for the moment her family remembered she existed.
Norman Barker would not allow a duchess to sit comfortably in peace without reminding her whose blood she carried, whose roof she had once lived beneath, and whose authority had shaped her life.
Still, expectation did not make it pleasant.
Eleanor’s thoughts leapt instantly to Arabella.
She rose. “Show them into the drawing room in just a moment.”
Graham bowed again and withdrew.
Eleanor took a steadying breath. She did not rush to the drawing room. And when she arrived, she sat where she was, composed, her hands folded in her lap, and her chin slightly lifted.
A duchess, she reminded herself.
If her father wished to make her feel small again, he would have to try much harder than he once did.
The footsteps reached her first.
A moment later, they entered with Graham.
Norman came first, as he always did, his gaze sweeping the room with proprietary familiarity as though he had stepped into his own drawing room rather than the Duke of Langford’s home. He wore a dark coat, gloves in hand, his posture stiff with self-importance.
Charlotte followed, dressed too finely for a simple afternoon call, her gown trimmed and flattering, her bonnet arranged in a way that made her look delicate and expensive. She held herself like a prize.
Arabella came last, her cheeks pink from the cold. Her dress was modest, neat, and very clearly not new. Yet she looked at Eleanor with genuine warmth, her eyes brightening as if she had been holding her breath since the wedding.
“Eleanor,” Arabella said softly.
Eleanor smiled at once, standing to greet her sister, who crossed the room eagerly. She took Arabella’s hands in hers before Charlotte could wedge herself between them.
“Arabella,” she murmured, squeezing gently. “I have missed you.”
Arabella’s throat worked. “I have missed you as well.”
Charlotte cleared her throat loudly behind her.
Norman stepped forward. “Your Grace.”
The title sounded strange from his mouth. Not respectful. Not warm. A label forced onto his tongue by necessity.
Eleanor inclined her head. “Lord St. George.”
Charlotte’s lips curved. “Your Grace,” she said, and the word dripped like honey. Sweet. Sticky. Not quite clean.
Eleanor held Charlotte’s gaze calmly. “Miss Charlotte.”
If Charlotte noticed the lack of affection, she did not show it.
Norman’s attention shifted past Eleanor, toward the hallway beyond, his voice turning pointedly polite. “Is His Grace at home?”
“He is,” Eleanor replied. “He will be joining us shortly.”
Norman’s eyes brightened, as though that was the true purpose of his visit.
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around Arabella’s for a moment before she released her.
They were barely seated before Norman began speaking his business. “I understand, Your Grace,” he said, “that the Duke’s properties are quite extensive.”
Eleanor’s gaze remained steady, “They are indeed, though I find it more accurate to say that our properties, or both of our interests, if you will, require a great deal of our shared attention. But we find the mere extent of the acreage to be a bore; it is the employment of the tenants that truly occupies our minds.”
Charlotte’s smile widened. “We heard you were at the menagerie with Lady Tamblyn,” she remarked, conversationally. “How thrilling for you! I confess I did not know a duchess had the time to stare at animals in cages.”
Arabella shot her a glance. “Charlotte.”
Charlotte fluttered her lashes. “What? I meant it kindly.”
Eleanor turned toward Arabella deliberately, refusing to feed Charlotte’s appetite for friction. “How are you?”
Arabella’s expression softened. “I am… well. As well as can be expected.”
Norman leaned forward slightly, directing the conversation back to where he wished it. “The duke’s lands,” he said, “must yield considerable income. I imagine the rental streams alone –”
Eleanor answered without missing a beat, “We have been reviewing the steward’s plans for the new drainage works and the stone cottages.
It is our aim that the estate be viewed not merely as an extensive holding, but as a productive asset to England and a source of industry for the people.
After all, a title is but a hollow thing if the land beneath it does not flourish for the Crown. ”
The door opened.
James entered without hurry, dressed in a dark coat that made him look severe and immovable. He paused for the briefest moment as his eyes took in the scene, then stepped into the room with controlled ease.
“Lord St. George,” James said, voice even.
Norman rose at once, nearly eager. “Your Grace. An honor.”
James inclined his head, then glanced to Arabella. “Miss Barker.”
Arabella rose, curtsying. “Your Grace.”
James’s gaze moved to Charlotte. “Miss Barker.”
Charlotte curtsied lower than necessary, her smile bright. “Your Grace.”
James’s expression did not soften. He took his seat beside Eleanor, close enough that the warmth of him steadied her without her wishing it.
Norman resumed at once, as if James’s presence had merely opened the door to the true conversation.
“I was just remarking,” Norman said, “that your estates must require a great deal of management. I understand Ashbourne Hall is –”
“In the north,” James said, cutting neatly through the sentence. “Yes.”
“And your London holdings,” Norman continued, undeterred. “Langford House must have required considerable –”
“Lord St. George,” James said, still calm. “If you have questions regarding the minutiae of my properties, you may direct them to my steward.”
Norman blinked, his smile faltering. “I only meant –”
“I know what you meant,” James replied.
Eleanor kept her face composed, but she felt a quiet satisfaction bloom in her chest. Norman had not expected resistance.
Charlotte’s eyes flashed briefly. Then she turned her attention to Eleanor again, as if she had been waiting for her moment.
“Well!” Charlotte stated sweetly, “Our own Arabella has been positively inundated with offers lately. Likely because everyone is curious what sort of sisters produce a duchess.”
Arabella stiffened. “I have not been inundated.”
“But you have had attention,” Charlotte insisted. “Tell us, Arabella. Which is it? The knight, or the third son.”
Arabella’s cheeks colored. “Charlotte –”
“It was the knight,” Charlotte repeated with mock admiration. “How very grand! A man with a title and no estate worth speaking of. And the third son of a baron – well, that is charming but provincial. He will inherit nothing but expectations.”
Eleanor’s fingers curled lightly in her lap.
Norman waved a dismissive hand. “They are options.”
Arabella’s voice turned small. “They are gentlemen.”
Charlotte’s smile sharpened. “Gentlemen, certainly. But hardly matches. Not when one has a sister who managed to marry a duke.”
Eleanor’s stomach tightened.
Charlotte leaned back slightly, her gaze fixed on Eleanor. “Though, I confess, I find it rather remarkable. The Duke of Langford is not a man known for being… easily guided.”
Norman cleared his throat. “Charlotte.”
Charlotte lifted her brows innocently, taking on the look of a na?ve girl used to being indulged. “What? I am only repeating what has been said.”
Eleanor's pulse ticked faster, but she trained her face into an easy smile, encouraging her half-sister to continue with a level tone. “And what, pray, has been said?”
Charlotte’s smile widened, and Eleanor recognized the exact moment Charlotte decided to cut.
“That you spread rumors,” Charlotte said lightly. “Before the Duke even met you. That you claimed yourself his betrothed to force his hand, Eleanor.”
Arabella gasped softly. “Charlotte!”
Norman’s face went red, but he did not deny it. His silence was its own cruelty.
Eleanor felt it like a slap across her face, as intended, but she managed to hold her calm and unbothered posture… Just like the lion’s provider.
Charlotte continued, voice sweet as poison. “It is quite clever, really. One might almost admire it. Though I suppose the duke’s pride must be… bruised.”
Eleanor turned her head slightly to observe her husband.
James’s expression had gone still. Not angry in the way Norman’s anger flared hot and messy. James’s anger was quieter, more dangerous, as though the air itself had learned to brace when he chose to be displeased.
“Miss Barker,” James said, his voice was dangerously low.
Charlotte’s smile faltered slightly. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“You are no longer welcome in this house,” James said calmly, “as you have been warned before of how you address the Duchess of Langford previously. It seems you still cannot do so with respect.”
The room went utterly silent.
Charlotte stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“Am I to understand that you have lost your hearing in the last few seconds that have passed?” James replied.
Norman’s face tightened. “Your Grace, surely–”
James’s gaze cut to Norman. “Lord St. George, you will not correct me in my own home.”
Norman’s mouth opened, then closed again.
Charlotte’s cheeks flushed, then went pale. She forced a laugh. “It was only a–”
“It was a deliberate insult,” James said, his patience clearly wearing thin.
Eleanor’s throat tightened, but she kept her face composed, as though this was merely another social correction, not a rescue.
Arabella’s eyes were wide, fixed on James as though she could not quite believe what she was witnessing.
Charlotte rose stiffly, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted her gloves. “Very well. If I am not welcome. Father?”
Norman stood too, quickly, his posture rigid. “We will take our leave.”
Arabella hesitated, looking to Eleanor with a pleading softness. Eleanor rose and crossed to her sister, taking her hands again.
“I will see you soon, Arabella,” Eleanor said quietly.
Arabella’s voice wavered. “Will you?”
“Yes,” Eleanor replied. Then, because she had made her decision the moment Frances mentioned it, she added, “You will attend the first ball of the Season with us. As it will be my ball.”
Arabella blinked. “We will?”
“You will,” Eleanor confirmed. “With us.”
Arabella’s breath caught. “El–”
“I am your sister,” Eleanor said simply. “And the Duchess of Langford. You will join us.”
Arabella’s eyes shone. “Thank you.”
Charlotte, hovering near the door, watched them with a look that promised this was not finished.
Norman’s gaze flicked over Eleanor with a mixture of resentment and calculation. “Your Grace.”
Eleanor inclined her head. “Lord St. George.”
As the door closed behind them and the house fell quiet again, Eleanor remained standing with Arabella’s warmth still lingering on her hands like a blessing.
And beside her, James stood very still, as though he had just drawn a line in the sand – and was fully prepared to defend it.