Chapter 18 A Proposal Most Inconvenient
A Proposal Most Inconvenient
Eleanor sat in her study, reviewing correspondence with the sort of meticulous attention that had made her London’s most formidable businesswoman.
The afternoon light streaming through tall windows illuminated neat stacks of papers, each sorted according to her exacting system.
She’d been expecting a particular visitor for the better part of an hour—ever since Jack’s contact had delivered a carefully worded message to His Grace about urgent estate matters requiring immediate attention.
The sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor made her pulse quicken despite her determination to remain coolly professional. She arranged her features into a mask of polite indifference as the duke appeared in her doorway, looking every inch the harried aristocrat despite his impeccable attire.
“Eleanor.” He paused at the threshold, and she noted with satisfaction that he seemed uncertain of his welcome. “I received word about Westmore Hall. Urgent matters requiring my attention.”
“Indeed?” She didn’t look up from her correspondence though she was acutely aware of his presence filling the doorway. “How unfortunate that your ancestral obligations should call you away.”
Her proxy husband moved into the room with measured steps, settling into the chair across from her desk without invitation.
“The estate is in worse condition than I’d feared.
The fire damage from last year has compromised the entire east wing.
If repairs aren’t begun immediately, we’ll lose the structure entirely. ”
Eleanor finally raised her eyes to meet his, noting the genuine concern etched across his features. Despite her carefully maintained anger about his recent nocturnal activities, she felt a treacherous pang of sympathy. “I see. And when do you plan to depart?”
“Tomorrow, if possible. Ashford is only a half-day’s ride from London, but the contractors need to begin work before the autumn rains worsen.
” He massaged his temple, a gesture that would have seemed vulnerable if Eleanor hadn’t been so determined to remain unmoved.
“I’ll need to reassess the destruction personally as Lord only knows how much damage another year of neglect has done.
I shall approve the most urgent repairs, arrange financing… ”
“How tedious for you,” Eleanor replied.
Something flickered in his eyes at her cool tone. “Eleanor, about that night—”
“I have no interest in discussing your evening entertainments,” she interrupted smoothly. “Your private affairs are precisely that—private.”
The silence that stretched between them felt charged with unspoken tension. Eleanor returned her attention to her papers, though she couldn’t ignore his presence or the growing intensity.
“Come with me,” he said.
Eleanor’s pen stilled mid-sentence. She looked up slowly, certain she’d misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“To Ashford. Come with me to assess the estate.” Her presumptuous husband leaned forward, his expression earnest. “You understand finances better than anyone I know. Your eye for practical matters, your ability to negotiate—I could use your expertise.”
The invitation caught Eleanor completely off-guard. She’d expected many things from this conversation, but not an invitation to accompany him on estate business. His estate business. “That’s quite impossible. I have commitments here, responsibilities—”
“Do you trust me to approve substantial expenditures without your oversight?” His tone was mild, but she caught the challenge beneath it.
“After all, you’ve made it quite clear that you prefer to maintain control over all financial matters.
How can you be certain I won’t bankrupt us both with unnecessary repairs? ”
Eleanor felt her jaw tighten at his perfectly calculated logic. The restoration of Westmore Hall would indeed require significant funds—funds that would come from their shared resources.
“The decision must be made quickly,” he continued, pressing his advantage. “Every day we delay means more damage from the weather. Two days out of London—we could leave tomorrow morning, assess the situation, make decisions, and return by Thursday evening.”
Eleanor weighed her options. The practical side of her mind recognized the wisdom of overseeing such a significant expenditure personally. The suspicious side wondered if this was merely another way for the clever duke to get under her skin.
“Very well,” she said finally. “Two days. But I have a condition.”
His eyebrows rose. “Name it.”
“This is strictly business. I’m accompanying you as a financial advisor, nothing more. No attempts at… familiarity during our travels.”
“Harsh,” he said with theatrical sadness. “Very well, I accept your condition. Though I feel compelled to add one of my own.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Such as?”
“No sabotaging my belongings during our stay. I refuse to address estate managers while wearing pink shirts or drinking salted tea.”
Despite herself, Eleanor’s lips twitched. “That seems reasonable.”
“Second, you will actually eat meals with me rather than hiding in your room. We’ll need to discuss financial matters, and I won’t have conversations shouted through oak doors.”
“Acceptable, although that was one more than what I agreed to,” she conceded grudgingly.
“And third,” his voice dropped to that lower register that never failed to affect her, “you shall not seduce me and distract me from my task.”
The gentle teasing in his tone caught her off-guard, reminding her of easier moments between them before everything had become so complicated. She felt her carefully maintained defenses waver slightly before she reinforced them with stern resolve.
“Agreed wholeheartedly,” she replied, keeping her facial expression neutral.
“Then I shall endeavor to be on my best behavior,” Damien said with a bow. “Though my best behavior has been known to be quite memorable.”
Eleanor felt heat rise in her cheeks despite her determination to remain unmoved. “We leave at eight tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of keeping my duchess waiting,” he replied, rising from his chair.
As the duke departed, Eleanor stared at the closed door and wondered what exactly she’d agreed to. Two days alone with the man who’d been systematically destroying her peace of mind seemed like an exercise in foolishness.
But practical necessity demanded her presence, she told herself firmly. This had nothing to do with the treacherous part of her that was curious about her husband’s ancestral home, or the even more treacherous part that wondered what he might be like away from London’s distractions.
Two days. She could manage two days of strictly business interactions with her temporary husband.
Even if the prospect filled her with equal parts dread and unwelcome anticipation.
Damien had spent the first hour of their journey in silence, watching the London countryside roll past through the carriage window while Eleanor maintained her position on the opposite bench, book held like a shield against unwanted conversation.
Now, as they settled into the rhythm of travel, Damien found his attention drawn inexorably to his traveling companion.
The afternoon light streaming through the windows caught the copper highlights in her hair, and her obvious concentration on whatever literary masterpiece occupied her hands only made her more intriguing.
“Fascinating reading?” he inquired, stretching his long legs as much as the confines allowed.
“Mmm,” Eleanor replied without looking up, turning a page.
Damien tilted his head to read the spine of her book, his eyebrows rising with interest. “Wollstonecraft’s Vindication? How delightfully radical of you, Duchess. Planning to overthrow the established order during our little excursion?”
“I brought it for the journey,” Eleanor said curtly, still not meeting his gaze. “Some of us believe in improving our minds during travel.”
“Are you suggesting I lack intellectual curiosity? I’m deeply offended.” Damien’s tone was all wounded innocence.
The carriage swayed gently around a curve, and Eleanor finally looked up, her blue eyes holding amusement. “You’re many things, but intellectually lacking isn’t one of them. However, your curiosity seems to run toward more practical matters.”
“Such as?”
“Gaming halls. Brothels. The sorts of establishments that cater to masculine appetites rather than masculine minds.”
Damien laughed. “How refreshingly blunt. Though I confess, some of my most illuminating conversations have occurred in supposedly disreputable places. You’d be amazed what philosophers can be found among London’s alleged degenerates.”
“Philosophers?” Eleanor’s tone suggested she found this highly unlikely, even as she shifted slightly to face him more directly.
“Oh yes. Just last week I encountered a former Oxford don in a Whitechapel gaming house, engaged in the most fascinating discourse on Aristotelian ethics while calculating card odds.” Damien leaned forward as much as the swaying carriage allowed.
“He argued quite convincingly that strategic deception in games of chance represents a higher form of truth-telling.”
Eleanor’s lips twitched despite her obvious efforts to remain stern. “You’re making that up.”
“Am I? What makes you certain? Perhaps your sheltered existence has simply failed to expose you to the full spectrum of human intellectual achievement.”
“Sheltered?” Eleanor closed her book, using her finger to mark her place. “I’ll have you know I’ve had quite extensive experience with human nature through my charitable work.”
The carriage hit a small rut, jolting them both slightly. Damien used the moment to adjust his position, noting how Eleanor’s eyes followed his movement with interest.
“Ah yes, your hospital. Tell me, do you personally interview each patient about their philosophical leanings? Or do you simply assume that poverty precludes profound thinking?”