Chapter 31
Arabella slept like the house itself was holding its breath for her.
The physician had called it a concussion, spoken of rest and quiet and careful watchfulness, but Eleanor did not need the words to understand the fragility of it.
Her sister’s skin was pale against the linen.
A bruise darkened one temple, stark in the morning light.
Her lashes lay still against her cheeks, and every time her chest rose, Eleanor felt a small, private relief.
Eleanor had not slept.
She sat in the chair beside the bed with her hands folded in her lap, the same position she had taken hours ago and refused to leave. A tray had been brought and removed untouched. Another had followed.
Mrs. Hargreaves had said gently, “Your Grace must take something.”
Eleanor had replied, “Later.”
Later never came.
She heard footsteps outside the door. Firm, measured. Not a servant.
James entered quietly, closing the door behind him.
He looked as though he had been awake all night as well. His shirt collar was undone, his hair not quite tamed, and the bruising along his jaw had deepened into a dark shadow. His knuckles were scraped, raw beneath hastily applied salve.
He stopped when he saw Eleanor at Arabella’s bedside, as if he had expected her to be elsewhere.
“You have not moved,” he said softly.
Eleanor kept her gaze on Arabella. “No.”
James came closer. His eyes went to Arabella’s face, then to the physician’s notes on the small table.
“How is she?” he asked.
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “Sleeping. Breathing. That is all I can say without tempting fate.”
James nodded once. “The physician will return at noon.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Eleanor then. Really looked.
“You should eat,” he said.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “I cannot.”
“You must,” James replied.
She turned her head sharply. “Do not command me.”
James stilled. “I am not trying to command you.”
“It sounds like you,” Eleanor said, voice low.
A brief silence.
James exhaled. “You are right. Forgive me.”
Eleanor looked away again, shame and anger tangled together. She had no desire to fight, but the edge in her would not disappear simply because he was remorseful.
James moved toward the tray on the side table. “May I try something?”
Eleanor did not answer.
He poured water into a glass and lifted a small piece of bread from the covered plate.
“Eleanor,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
She turned her head reluctantly.
His expression was steady. Not cold. Not distant. Almost gentle.
“Just one bite,” he said. “For Arabella’s sake, if not your own.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “Do not use her.”
“I am not,” he said. “I am reminding you that you must remain standing. She will need you.”
Eleanor stared at him, then at the bread in his hand.
Her stomach turned, but she forced herself to open her mouth.
James offered the bite carefully, as if feeding her were a sacred act. Eleanor chewed mechanically, tasting nothing.
“Another,” he said.
Eleanor shook her head. “No.”
James waited. “A sip of water?”
She hesitated, then took the glass when he offered it. Her hands shook slightly. She hated that he noticed.
He set the glass down and pulled a chair closer, sitting beside her with his knees angled toward the bed, as if positioning himself to guard both Eleanor and Arabella at once.
“I owe you the truth,” James said.
Eleanor’s breath caught.
She had wanted answers for so long. She had demanded them. Teased for them. Fought for them.
Now that they were offered, she felt suddenly afraid of what they might cost.
James’s eyes remained on Arabella as he spoke, his voice low and controlled. “The night my parents died, I saw it.”
Eleanor’s heart clenched. “You saw it?”
He nodded once. “I was a boy. I had been sent upstairs. I did not stay upstairs.”
Eleanor swallowed hard. “James.”
His jaw tightened. “I heard voices. A man I did not recognize. My mother’s voice, frightened. My father trying to keep calm.”
He paused, and Eleanor could tell he was forcing himself to continue.
“I crept down the back stairs,” he said. “I thought I would find an argument. Something ordinary.”
Eleanor’s hands curled around the arm of her chair. “And you did not.”
“No,” James replied. “I saw my father fall first. I saw my mother run to him. I saw her turn, trying to shield him, as if her body could stop what was already happening.”
His throat moved as he swallowed. “The man looked at me.”
Eleanor’s breath stopped.
James’s eyes flickered toward her. “He saw me. He did not kill me.”
“Why,” Eleanor whispered.
James’s mouth tightened. “Because he wanted me to remember. Because he wanted to control me. Because he wanted me to grow into this title under his shadow.”
Eleanor stared at him. “Oh God.”
James nodded once, grim. “I have been looking for him ever since.”
Eleanor’s voice was barely audible. “All these years?”
“All these years,” James confirmed.
Eleanor thought of the rules. The distance. The icy restraint that had often felt like contempt.
It had not been contempt.
It had been survival.
James continued, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “When I finally began to see patterns, I realized the man was not a stranger to society. He moved in it. He used it. The ton protects its own.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “So you married me.”
James flinched. “Yes.”
Eleanor’s breath came in a sharp line. “To use me?”
“To protect myself,” he corrected quickly. “To protect you. To protect the investigation.”
Eleanor’s jaw tightened. “How would marrying me protect it?”
“Because a newly married duke is expected to be distracted,” James said. “Expected to be settled. A man does not hunt in the shadows when he is meant to be smiling in drawing rooms.”
Eleanor stared at him. “So I was a cover.”
James’s voice dropped. “At first.”
Silence flooded the room. Eleanor forced herself to breathe through it.
James’s hands clenched on his knees. “Then I found Lady Whitcombe.”
Eleanor’s gaze sharpened. “Isidora.”
“Yes,” James replied. “She has been circling for years under different names and different introductions. She preys on men with money and reputation. She finds their weaknesses and sells them back.”
Eleanor’s mouth went dry. “She said she knew my father.”
“She was lying,” James said. “Or twisting the truth to make it useful.”
“She was with Norman,” Eleanor said. “I saw her.”
James’s expression tightened. “I know.”
Eleanor’s stomach turned. “She sent someone to my room.”
“Yes,” James said, the word heavy. “Because she knew it would punish me fastest through you.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened in her lap. “Arabella was hurt because of you.”
James’s eyes closed briefly. “Yes.”
The admission was immediate. No defense. No evasion.
“It is my fault your life was in danger,” James continued. “I chose revenge over you. I chose obsession over my duty to protect you properly. And it resulted in you and your sister being harmed.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “You saved us.”
“I arrived barely in time,” James said. “And only because Lady Whitcombe told me she had already acted.”
Eleanor stared at him, the truth settling like lead in her chest.
James looked at her fully now. “I do not deserve you.”
Eleanor’s eyes stung. “James.”
“No,” he said, voice rough. “Not when I married you for strategy. Not when I left you. Not when you had to fight a man in your own bedchamber while I was chasing the satisfaction of a name.”
He looked away, jaw tight. “You should hate me.”
Eleanor’s heartbeat thundered. She did not know what she felt. Everything. Too much.
She took a slow breath.
“I want a favor,” Eleanor said.
James blinked, startled. “A favor?”
“Yes,” she replied, voice steadying as she spoke. “You said you do not deserve me. Fine. Then earn it.”
James’s gaze sharpened. “What are you asking?”
Eleanor leaned forward slightly, her tone controlled but fierce. “Include me.”
James went still. “Include you in what?”
“In her downfall,” Eleanor said. “In Isidora’s exposure. In whatever comes next.”
James’s expression hardened instantly. “No.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed. “You do not get to say no.”
“I do,” James said. “Because you are not safe.”
Eleanor’s voice rose, sharp and contained. “My sister was attacked in my room. Do not speak to me about safety as if I have been living in ignorance.”
James clenched his jaw. “I will not risk you again.”
“You already did,” Eleanor shot back. “Without my consent.”
James opened his mouth, then closed it again, frustration visible.
Eleanor lowered her voice. “She should have thought better before hurting my sister.”
James’s gaze flickered to Arabella. Fear tightened his face.
“I admire your bravery,” he said quietly. “But I am terrified of it.”
Eleanor’s tone softened slightly, though her resolve did not. “Then be terrified and still include me.”
James shook his head once. “I cannot.”
Eleanor’s chest tightened. “Fine. Then when it is done, we can live separately as you wanted.”
James’s face went still.
The air in the room changed.
Eleanor saw the impact of her words land in him with surprising force, as if she had struck him more deeply than any accusation.
“That is what you want,” James said slowly.
“It is what you offered,” Eleanor replied, though her voice wavered.
James’s mouth tightened. “It is not what I want.”
The words hung between them, dangerous and unfinished.
Eleanor’s breath caught. “Then what do you want?”
James stared at her as if he was about to say something he had no intention of admitting aloud.
Then Arabella stirred.
A faint sound, a shift of linens, a shallow inhale that turned into a small groan.
Eleanor’s attention snapped to her sister at once. “Arabella?”
James rose immediately, moving to the bedside.
Arabella’s eyes fluttered, unfocused at first, then narrowing with confusion. “Eleanor?”
Eleanor reached for her hand. “I am here.”
Arabella blinked slowly. “My head hurts.”
Eleanor swallowed hard. “I know. The physician said it will.”