Chapter 19
James woke with the distinct sense that he had overslept.
Not the ordinary dullness of a late rising, but the sharper irritation of time squandered and of a schedule abandoned without permission. His eyes opened to muted daylight and a hearth that had been recently stirred. Heat still breathed from the coals.
And beside the fire, on a small table he did not recall approving for such use, a tray waited.
Steam curled from a covered dish. A pot sat beside it, cloth-wrapped, warmth held close like a secret. There was bread, cut fruit, and a small pitcher of cream. His stomach tightened with recognition.
Someone had arranged this.
The question should have been simple. Mrs. Hargreaves was old enough to run the household blindfolded. Thomas was conscientious to a fault. Either would have ensured he ate before the day swallowed him whole.
And yet James stared at the tray as though it were an accusation.
Because there was a third possibility.
Eleanor.
His mouth went dry, and the memory arrived uninvited of her voice in the drawing room the night before, calm and unflinching.
Whether I should wait.
He had given an answer. Or something like one.
He had promised that if he left again, he would inform her.
He had promised himself, as he walked back to his room last night, that they would take breakfast together this morning.
Something like an olive branch offered because he knew he had let her down in that regard.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
He had slept through it.
A soft knock sounded.
“Come in,” he said, voice rough.
The door opened to Thomas, immaculate as ever, holding himself with the quiet patience of a man who had been waiting some time.
“Your Grace,” Thomas said.
James looked pointedly at the tray. “Who brought this?”
Thomas’s expression remained neutral, but James knew him well enough to catch the faintest flicker of something between satisfaction and amusement.
“Her Grace,” Thomas said. “Or rather, she instructed that it be brought.”
James’s chest tightened. “She was in here.”
“No, Your Grace.”
James paused, then corrected himself. “Then who?”
“I brought it in at Her Grace’s request.”
James stared at the food as though it might change shape into a confession. “And she requested this because?”
Thomas’s mouth twitched. He had the gall to look pleased.
“Because,” Thomas said, “Her Grace waited for you in the dining room until the breakfast turned cold.”
James’s fingers flexed once at his side. “She waited.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Thomas considered, as though selecting the least damning number. “Near an hour, Your Grace.”
James’s irritation shifted direction away from time and toward himself. “And she ate nothing?”
“No.”
James exhaled through his nose. “She should have eaten.”
“That was suggested.”
“And?”
Thomas lifted one shoulder in a restrained shrug. “Her Grace said she was not hungry.”
James stood, crossing to the table. He lifted the lid from the dish. Eggs, perfectly cooked. A slice of ham. Toast. It would have been warm not long ago.
He replaced the lid without touching any of it.
“And then,” James said, “she retired to her room.”
“Yes.”
“And her maid brought her a tray.”
“She did.”
“And Her Grace refused it?”
Thomas hesitated. “She did not refuse it, precisely. She asked her maid to bring it to you instead.”
James’s throat tightened.
As if he were a child who could not be trusted to remember his own meals.
As if she were smoothing over his failure without complaint, without a scene, without even the satisfaction of being offended in a way he could observe.
He did not know what unsettled him more, her restraint, or her kindness.
James looked at Thomas. “Why did she do that?”
Thomas’s gaze was steady. “Her Grace said you would likely rise hungry.”
James stared at him. “That is all she said?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
It was not all, James suspected. Eleanor did not speak without layers. But Thomas, loyal devil that he was, would not betray her with speculation.
James dragged a hand through his hair. “What else have I missed?”
Thomas’s expression remained professionally blank. “Aside from breakfast?”
James shot him a look.
Thomas took that as permission to proceed. “Her Grace has made several adjustments to the household schedule.”
James moved to the washstand, pouring water into the basin. “Such as?”
“She has moved the household accounts review to every other day rather than weekly. She said it was easier to catch discrepancies early.”
James scrubbed his face, water cold against his skin. “Discrepancies?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He dried his hands. “Continue.”
“She has ordered the east wing guest chambers aired and the linens replaced.”
“For what purpose?”
Thomas’s mouth quirked. “She said if the Season brings unexpected guests, Blackmere ought not to look as though it has been sleeping.”
James stared at him. The wording sounded like Eleanor.
“She has also met with Mrs. Hargreaves regarding winter stores and requested a written inventory. And she has approved a new arrangement for the kitchen garden.”
James blinked. “Approved?”
“Yes.”
He turned slowly. “Since when does my wife approve anything at Blackmere?”
Thomas’s eyes warmed with something very close to admiration. “Since she asked what authority she held and no one was foolish enough to pretend she held none.”
James stared at him, then gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“I will see the bill for her choices soon enough,” James muttered, reaching for his shirt.
Thomas’s mouth twitched again. “Perhaps, Your Grace.”
James tugged the shirt on, annoyed by the satisfaction in his own chest.
Eleanor had taken control in days.
Of course she had. She had been managing herself in hostile territory her entire life. Blackmere was merely… larger.
“And you find this amusing,” James said, fastening a cuff.
“I find it efficient,” Thomas corrected.
James huffed, then glanced again toward the tray. “Did she say anything else?”
Thomas hesitated.
James paused mid-button. “Thomas.”
“She asked me,” Thomas said carefully, “whether Your Grace often forgets to eat when consumed by work.”
James stilled. “And you replied?”
“I said Your Grace forgets many things when consumed by work.”
James’s mouth tightened. “I see.”
Thomas cleared his throat. “Her Grace then asked whether it would be unwelcome if she ensured certain things were handled without disturbing you.”
James held Thomas’s gaze. “And you told her what?”
“I told her,” Thomas said, “that if Your Grace objected, he would say so. Loudly.”
James stared at him.
Then, because there was no defense, he let out a short, humorless laugh. “You have all taken my wife’s side.”
Thomas’s tone remained even. “We have taken the side of the household.”
James turned back to the tray, lifted the cup, and took a swallow. The tea was still warm.
Too warm to have been neglected long.
He set it down carefully. “Where is Her Grace now?”
“In her rooms, Your Grace.”
“Sleeping?”
“I believe so.”
James’s chest tightened again, the image of her sitting at the long dining table while food cooled in front of her pressing against something he did not wish to name.
He had promised her breakfast.
He had promised, without thinking, that he would be present.
And she had waited anyway.
James pulled on his coat, movements sharper than necessary. “Send a note to Mrs. Hargreaves. Tell her I will not take luncheon.”
Thomas blinked. “Your Grace.”
“I will be out.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He reached for his gloves, then paused.
“And Thomas?”
Thomas waited.
“When Her Grace wakes… tell her I regret missing breakfast.”
Thomas’s expression softened a fraction. “Very good, Your Grace.”
James hesitated, then added, because he could not bear the inadequacy of it, “Tell her it will not happen again.”
Thomas held his gaze. “Yes, Your Grace.”
James turned toward the door, then stopped once more.
“The tray,” he said, gesturing vaguely, as though the food had become an intolerable symbol.
Thomas took one step forward. “Shall I have it removed?”
James looked at it again, then shook his head. “No.”
Thomas waited.
“I will eat it,” James said curtly. “It would be a waste.”
Thomas’s mouth twitched as though he might smile, but he did not. “Of course, Your Grace.”
James waited until Thomas had gone, then sat by the hearth and forced himself to eat.
Not because he was hungry.
Because Eleanor had waited.
And because a man who allowed a woman to wait for him twice did not deserve her composure.
By the time James reached the stables, the air had sharpened into a clean winter bite.
It suited his mood.
He tightened his grip on the reins as the groom led his horse out, the animal stamping once against the frost-stiff ground. James preferred riding to driving. It required attention. It punished distraction. It made the body honest.
And he needed honesty.
Not about his work.
About the fact that he had eaten a tray of breakfast because his wife had sent it to his room like an offering, and it had made something in him twist.
Thomas had been right, infuriatingly. Eleanor had taken control of the household as though she had always been meant to.
James swung into the saddle and set off, the estate falling away behind him in a blur of bare trees and iron gates.
It took hours to reach his cousin’s estate. It was one of the nearer properties, positioned conveniently for men who needed distance from London but could not afford to be too far from it. James rode hard, arriving with his mind sharpened by cold and speed.
Roderick was waiting, exactly where James expected him to be, near the stables, waiting for him.
He turned at James’s approach, grin widening. “Langford.”
James dismounted without ceremony. “You’re early.”
“I live here,” Roderick said.
James handed his reins to the groom and walked toward the house without waiting. Roderick fell into step beside him, uninvited as ever.