Chapter 15
Fifteen
The little room smelled faintly of lavender and crayon wax.
Eleanor sat cross-legged on the plush rug, a smudge of green on her wrist and a streak of blue on the hem of her sleeve.
Across from her, Penelope hunched in deep concentration, tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of her mouth as she attempted to paint a wing without dripping onto the table.
She hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. Eleanor didn’t mind. She found the silence… easy.
It wasn’t a silence born of discomfort or scrutiny, like the ones that so often haunted parlors and drawing rooms. This was a child’s silence—focused, undemanding, soft-edged. And somehow, it made Eleanor feel more at peace than she had in days.
“Does this look like a bird?” Penelope asked, breaking the quiet.
Eleanor leaned in. The creature in question was a delightful mess of pink feathers, a crooked beak, and two wildly uneven eyes.
“It looks like a very fashionable bird,” she said solemnly.
Penelope grinned. “She’s a princess bird. Her name is Melpomene.”
“Like the Muse?”
The child blinked. “Like what?”
“Never mind.” Eleanor smiled, dipping her brush into a pale lilac. “Princess Melpomene it is.”
They painted in companionable silence for a moment more. A few brushstrokes. The flutter of birdsong from the open window. The sound of a maid passing by with folded linen.
Then Penelope spoke again, very softly. “Are you going to stay?”
Eleanor’s hand froze midair.
She looked up. The girl was watching her now, not suspiciously but with a quiet, aching hope that made Eleanor’s chest tighten.
“Stay?” she echoed gently.
“Here,” Penelope said. “In the house. With us. Or are you going to leave too?”
Eleanor set her brush down.
She had no idea how long Penelope had been carrying that fear. How many times she’d watched trunks being loaded or heard footsteps down the corridor at night and wondered if someone else was going. If she was being left behind again. Her small shoulders looked impossibly tense for someone so young.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Eleanor said, voice soft but steady. “I promise.”
Penelope blinked at her. “Even if he makes that grumpy face? My other father?”
Eleanor smiled a little. “Even then.”
“Even if I make a mess?”
“Especially not then.”
There was a long pause. The child returned her gaze to the paper, but her hand didn’t move.
“Will you be my other mother?”
Eleanor felt her breath catch.
Not in fear. Not even in panic. But in something sharper that trembled behind her ribs, just out of reach. She hadn’t expected the question. Not so soon. Not so plainly. But there it was, raw and waiting.
“I would be honored,” she said quietly. “If that’s what you want.”
Penelope was silent for a long time. Then, with the frankness only children possessed, she asked, “Will you be as grumpy as my other father?”
Eleanor laughed, warm and sudden. “I shall try not to be.”
The girl frowned. “But he says grumpiness is a family trait.”
“Does he now?”
Penelope nodded. “He said I’m already very good at it.”
Eleanor bit back a smile. “Well, I suppose we’ll make a fine trio then.”
Penelope dipped her brush in red. “Were you scared?”
“Of what?”
“Of marrying him.”
Eleanor hesitated. She didn’t want to lie, but neither did she want to place weight where there should be none.
“I was nervous,” she admitted. “But sometimes, when we’re about to do something important—something that could change everything—it’s normal to be a little scared. It doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
Penelope was quiet again. Her little hand moved slowly, painting careful circles.
“Will you still want to be my other mother,” she asked finally, “if I get cross sometimes?”
Eleanor leaned over and dabbed a bit of blue beside the red. “Of course.”
“Even if I throw things?”
“We’ll work on that.”
Penelope giggled.
“And you know,” Eleanor added, “new parents—other parents—we’re still learning, too. We’re not perfect.”
The girl looked up. “You don’t know how to be a mother?”
“I know some things,” Eleanor said. “But I’ve never been your mother before. I’ll need help. I’ll need you to tell me when I get something wrong.”
“Like if you put raisins in the porridge?”
“Exactly.”
Penelope nodded, very solemn. “That’s terrible.”
“I’m relieved to know where we stand on porridge.”
A pause. Then, carefully, Eleanor added, “And your uncle? He’s learning, too.”
Penelope’s nose scrunched. “He’s very bad at it.”
“Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “But he’s trying.”
The girl didn’t respond.
“If he does something you don’t like,” Eleanor said, dipping her brush again, “you can tell him. Kindly, of course, but clearly. He’s a bit like a wolf—big and growly and not always good with feelings. But he listens.”
Penelope tilted her head. “Really?”
“Really. He’s already changed his mind once this week. That’s nearly a miracle.”
The child considered that. “Should I make a list?”
“A list?”
“Of all the things I want him to do better.”
Eleanor grinned. “Why not? But make sure you include hugs. He’s very stingy with those.”
Penelope nodded seriously. “I’ll write it in ink.”
They painted for a while longer. The sun moved across the rug, inching slowly toward the corner. Outside, the day drifted on—calm and blue and unmarred by consequence.
Eleanor felt it again. That surprising, delicate quiet inside her.
She hadn’t known what to expect of Ramsay’s niece. Certainly not this. This strange, sweet connection that had appeared out of nowhere and made her feel like she belonged for the first time in weeks.
She looked at Penelope’s hunched shoulders, at the way her tongue peeked out when she concentrated, and she thought, I will stay. I will try. I will make this strange life something more than survival.
And maybe she could make something whole again.
The afternoon light had begun to shift, casting long gold streaks across the floor. The room had fallen unusually quiet. Eleanor blinked, the haze of her thoughts clearing slowly, and glanced down.
Penelope’s fingers had gone sticky with sleep.
She’d curled against Eleanor’s side on the settee, her painted bird held tight to her chest. Eleanor gently disentangled them, lifting the girl with care.
Penelope murmured something incoherent and rested her head against Eleanor’s shoulder.
Her weight was slight. A bird herself, soft-boned and warm, already half in dreams.
Eleanor crossed the dim hallway with slow, measured steps. The candles flickered low in their sconces. Somewhere below, a door creaked shut. The house was quiet now, steeped in the hush that only came after twilight.
In the child’s room, Eleanor set Penelope down and pulled the covers over her. A few strands of hair clung to her damp forehead. Eleanor smoothed them back then reached for the night lamp.
Just before she turned it down, Penelope’s eyes blinked open. “Will you stay?”
Eleanor stilled. “I’ll be just down the hall.”
“But not gone?”
“No,” Eleanor said softly. “Not gone.”
The girl nodded, already drifting again. Eleanor stood a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of her small chest. Then she turned to the door, pulled it shut with the faintest click—
And collided with a wall in the corridor.
She gasped, hand flying to her chest.
Once again… it was not a wall.
Ramsay stood there, arms crossed. Too close. Too warm. His hair was mussed, and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, forearms dark and sinewed in the lamplight. He didn’t move.
“God,” Eleanor muttered, trying to catch her breath. “You could have made a sound.”
“I did.”
“Well, not a loud one.”
His gaze flicked to the nursery door then back to her. “She’s asleep?”
“Yes.”
“And content, I assume.”
Eleanor folded her arms. “Is there a reason you’re lurking outside children’s rooms?”
“I was coming to see how it ended.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “You’ve a talent for ignoring instruction.”
Eleanor arched a brow. “You mean your instruction of being a mother to Penelope?”
“I meant the instruction where she learns to ride. As I did.”
“And look how grumpy you turned out.”
His jaw flexed. “You’re undermining the structure I meant to build.”
“You married me to run your household, did you not?” she said, voice quiet but firm. “To care for her?”
His eyes narrowed. “Aye.”
“Then let me.”
They stared at each other, the silence thickening. Eleanor could feel her heart pounding. Not from fear. From proximity. From the way he smelled and the heat that seemed to radiate off him in waves.
“Saturday,” Ramsay said abruptly.
She blinked. “What?”
“There’s an auction. We’re to attend.”
She tilted her head. “How come? I thought you hated propriety.”
“Does this count as a thing married couples do together? Wasn’t this one of your terms?” he smirked.
“Yes,” she said, a little too quickly. “It counts.”
Another pause. He didn’t move. Neither did she.
Eleanor shifted, suddenly aware of the way her skirts brushed his boots, the impossibly small space between them.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, aiming for breezy but landing somewhere closer to breathless. “About your rule.”
His gaze slid to hers, slow and unreadable. “Which one?”
She cleared her throat, fingers tightening around the edge of her sleeve. “The… same bed rule.”
A single brow arched. “Have you?”
The way he said it—low, amused, expectant—sent heat rushing to her ears. He was too close. Not quite touching her, but his nearness stole the air from her lungs. Her skin suddenly felt too tight for her bones.
“I think perhaps—perhaps it’s not entirely necessary,” she said quickly.
He didn’t blink. “You don’t say.”
She hated how calm he was. How unaffected, as if he didn’t loom over her now, all heat and shadow and knowing smirk.
“I mean, obviously some couples have their own rooms,” she added, words tumbling faster now. “In fact, it’s very common. Even among those with—functional marriages.”
“And do you intend for ours to be functional?” His voice had dropped a note, edged with something dangerous.
Eleanor flushed. Her pulse leapt wildly, like it wanted to crawl out of her throat. She kept her chin high, but it took effort. “I intend for it to be… respectful.”
He stepped forward. Just half a pace, but it felt like a hundred.
The hallway narrowed. The light dimmed. Her stomach dropped, and the tips of her fingers tingled.
“You take duties very seriously,” he murmured.
Her mouth was dry. “I do.”
“Then you’ll also take this one seriously.”
“I—” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t… eventually… it’s just—”
“You’re stalling.”
His words landed like a strike, sharp and deliberate.
Eleanor straightened, heat flaring along her spine. “I’m explaining.”
His eyes didn’t waver. “You’re stalling.”
Her breath hitched. She hated how easily he could undo her. How close he stood now, how still, how sure of himself, as if he already knew how this conversation would end. As if she were the one catching up.
“I just—” she tried, but the words tangled. “What if I never want to?”
It came out sharper than intended. She hadn’t meant to challenge him. And yet she had. Fully. Stupidly. Her heart pounded in her throat.
His gaze darkened. Not with anger but something heavier. More dangerous. “You will.”
She blinked. “How can you be so certain?”
He took the final step. Just one. But it obliterated what little space remained between them.
Eleanor forgot how to breathe.
His body didn’t touch hers, but she could feel the heat rolling off him, warm and dizzying, making her skin tighten and her knees lock in self-defense. His breath was steady. Hers wasn’t. Her hands itched with tension, clenching so tightly at her sides, the knuckles blanched white.
He tilted his head, just slightly. His voice came low, a quiet rasp that seemed to skim her collarbone without needing to touch it. “Because you’re already halfway there, lass.”
The words melted into her.
She opened her mouth—to deny it, maybe. To tell him that he was wrong, so wrong, except her throat had closed up, and her lungs had forgotten how to work. All that escaped was a soft sound. A useless, broken breath that only betrayed her.
And then he leaned in.
Not to kiss her mouth. No, he bypassed that, almost cruelly. Almost like he knew it would undo her faster.
His lips found the curve of her neck, just beneath the ear. A single, searing kiss.
Her entire body lit up like a struck match.
He kissed her again. Lower this time, dragging heat down the slope of her neck. Slow. Measured. Possessive. As if he had every right. As if she’d already said yes without realizing.
Eleanor swayed.
Her hands had curled tighter, fingertips numb. She couldn’t lift her arms. Couldn’t lean forward. Couldn’t pull away. She felt drugged, stunned by sensation. Her knees quivered. Her thighs clenched. And she hated how much she needed to hold still.
He paused just beneath her jaw, and she could feel him exhale. Warm and heavy. His nose brushed the underside of her chin. His voice was velvet and iron.
“Tell me when.” The words slid into her skin.
She couldn’t speak. Her lips parted. Her tongue was dry. There were a thousand responses lined up in her head, and none of them made it to her mouth.
He stepped back. The space he left felt brutal. Cold.
But his eyes never moved from hers. And in them she saw everything he hadn’t touched: her wrists, her spine, her chest rising too fast. Every inch of her was caught in that stare.
“Until then…” he said softly, “you’ll think of this.”
Then he turned and walked away.
She couldn’t move.
Her legs had no strength left. Her lungs ached. Her whole body pulsed like a plucked string. Every nerve attuned to where his mouth had been. Her pulse thudded so violently, she half-feared the walls would echo it. She pressed a palm to her chest. It didn’t help.
He hadn’t asked for permission. He hadn’t needed to. But he’d waited. He’d left her standing—shaking—with nothing but the memory of his mouth and the echo of a promise.
And God help her, she wasn’t sure how long she could hold out.