Chapter 16
The house had been unusually still that afternoon, and Alexander had noticed it before anything had been said aloud.
Then came the interruption in the evening.
He stood in the drawing room for some time without fully occupying it, a letter half-read in his hand. He was distracted by a sense of dread, convinced that something was wrong.
When the knock finally came, it carried enough formality to confirm what he had already suspected.
“There is a visitor, Your Grace,” the butler said.
Alexander did not look up immediately.
“I was not informed of any scheduled calls.”
Thornton hesitated only slightly.
“It was not scheduled, sir. Lady Cordelia Ashworth has arrived and insisted that you see her.”
Alexander’s hand stilled on the paper. For a brief moment, nothing else was said, then he set the letter down.
“Show her in.”
Thornton bowed and withdrew. Alexander remained where he was, though his attention had fully shifted. The quiet of the room felt different, no longer absent of sound but waiting for it. He had not moved by the time the door opened again.
Cordelia Ashworth stepped inside as though the house had already been arranged for her arrival. She did not hesitate at the threshold.
Her presence was immediate and entirely self-assured, her dark green eyes taking in the room before settling on him. There was nothing uncertain in her, and nothing tentative in the way she crossed the space between them, her blonde hair remaining perfectly styled in an updo as she moved.
“Alexander,” she said, as though no time had passed at all.
“Lady Ashworth,” he replied evenly.
“I wondered if I would find you changed,” she said, “but it seems you have only become more difficult to read.”
“You were not expected,” he said bluntly.
Lady Cordelia tilted her head slightly.
“I rarely find expectation necessary.”
Behind her, Eleanor entered. Alexander registered her presence, though he did not turn immediately. Eleanor stopped just inside the doorway, her attention moving between them. She had not spoken yet, but the silence around her was already different from Cordelia’s.
Cordelia’s gaze flicked toward her briefly before returning to Alexander.
“I see,” Cordelia said softly, as though placing a piece into position. “You have not been alone after all.”
Alexander’s tone remained steady.
“Eleanor is my wife.”
She seemed to find amusement in that at once.
“Of course she is,” she said lightly, as though acknowledging an expected detail rather than absorbing it.
She stepped closer to him as though there was no need for propriety at all. Alexander took an instinctive step back, and upon looking at Eleanor, he was certain that there was a hint of a smile on her lips, which he valued more than he expected.
“I had thought,” Cordelia continued, “that I might find you in a rather different state.”
“In what state?”
Cordelia glanced at him then, her smile returning in a more pointed form.
“Mourning,” she said simply. “Fixed in the past, as you so often were inclined to be.”
She let her gaze drift briefly toward Eleanor again, this time more openly assessing.
“And instead,” she added, “I find you married to a little gardener. How lovely this is.”
The words were light in delivery, but precise in aim. Eleanor did not move, and Alexander did not respond immediately, but the air between the three of them shifted in a way that none of them could ignore.
The remark lingered in the room for only a moment longer than it should have, not because Alexander acknowledged it, but because he chose not to. He had learned during his time in society that not every barb required a response.
Cordelia had always made such comments about others, and to spend energy on each one was to allow her more control than she deserved. He turned slightly instead, his attention fixed on her face.
“You are not here to discuss my household,” he said evenly.
Cordelia’s smile did not falter. If anything, it sharpened with renewed interest, as though his refusal to engage had only confirmed something she had already suspected.
“Am I not?” she replied lightly. “It is rather difficult not to notice when one’s former acquaintance has made such unexpected choices.”
Eleanor remained still near the doorway as though she had become aware that she was no longer merely observing the exchange but being drawn into it without her consent. Alexander did not look at her, though he was aware of her silence.
“I confess,” Cordelia continued, “I had wondered what sort of woman would agree to such an arrangement. One does not become the Duchess of Ashbourne without understanding what is being exchanged.”
Cordelia’s gaze flicked briefly toward Eleanor again before returning to him.
“I suppose it is not difficult to understand, in the end,” she added. “Titles, security, position. There are always practical considerations in such unions, and if one is desperate enough, they will accept any conditions.”
“That is enough,” he said quietly. “You will not speak of my wife in that manner.”
The words landed with a firmness that cut through the air more cleanly than anything else had that afternoon.
For a brief moment, even Cordelia did not respond.
Eleanor’s breath caught faintly, though she did not move.
Cordelia studied him for a moment longer, as though reassessing what she had thought she understood.
Then, very slowly, she began to seem almost pleased.
“How interesting,” she murmured. “I do not recall you being inclined toward the defense of others in that way.”
Alexander did not rise to the implication.
“You will leave this house if you intend to continue speaking as though you have a right to interpret it.”
The dismissal was calm, controlled, and final. Cordelia held his gaze for a moment longer, then gave a faint nod, as though accepting the boundary, not out of respect, but curiosity.
“As you wish,” she said softly.
Yet as she turned slightly, preparing to withdraw, her gaze lingered on him a fraction too long, and for the first time since she had entered, Alexander felt a sense of disturbance, because she still had the ability to make him feel as though something unresolved had been left behind, long after he had believed it was buried.
The room felt different after Cordelia left, though nothing in it had physically changed. Alexander remained where he stood for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze fixed on Eleanor, who had not moved from a few mere steps in from the doorway.
“You should not concern yourself with such visits,” he said at last, his voice even.
“It was not possible not to concern myself,” she replied quietly. “She spoke as though I were not present in my own marriage.”
A brief pause followed.
“Yes, well, she is wrong. That is not true at all.”
Eleanor looked at him then, properly.
“Is it not?”
The question was simple, but it carried more weight than she intended. For a moment, Alexander did not answer, deciding how much of himself he could allow into the space between them.
“Cordelia Ashworth is not a part of this household, nor is she a part of anything that concerns you now.”
“And yet she knows you,” she said softly. “In a way I do not.”
The words were not accusatory, but they settled between them regardless. Alexander’s gaze lifted slightly, meeting hers more directly.
“Knowing someone is not the same as understanding them.”
Eleanor gave a faint, restrained breath.
“Then I do not understand you either.”
The honesty of it lingered in the air longer than either of them seemed prepared for. Alexander did not dismiss it immediately. Instead, his attention remained on her in a way that felt more sustained than their earlier exchanges.
“You are not meant to understand everything at once,” he said finally.
“That is not comforting,” Eleanor replied. “But I would like to. It is not fair that there are things I do not know about you.”
“Ah, yes, for you have told me everything about yourself.”
With that, he watched as she had to accept that they each had their secrets. Eleanor stepped a little further into the room, her gaze briefly dropping before returning to him.
“When she spoke,” she said after a moment, “it felt as though I had walked into something that already existed before I arrived.”
“You did not walk into something,” he said. “You arrived after it had ended.”
The words should have been final, but he knew that they were not comforting.
“And yet she still knows how to speak to you in a way I do not.”
Alexander took a slow step closer, not enough to close the distance entirely, but enough that the space between them changed in its definition.
“Cordelia only knows who I was before,” he said. “That does not mean she knows anything about who I am now.”
Eleanor did not look away.
“And what about me? Will I be allowed to know anything about you?”
“That depends entirely on what you wish to ask me. I do not want us to be strangers, Eleanor, but you and I both know that the way our marriage is works best for us both.”
The answer was simple, but Eleanor’s breath caught slightly, and he realized she had not stepped back from him, nor had he withdrawn.
The distance between them had decreased greatly, and he was once again captivated by how beautiful she was when she looked up at him with her wide, searching eyes.
Alexander’s gaze held hers for a fraction longer than necessary, refusing to accept what had crossed his mind while also wondering just what she was thinking too.
“You should rest,” he said at last, though it was nothing more than an attempt to reassert control over something that had already begun to slip.
Eleanor did not move immediately, and neither did he. For a brief moment, neither of them corrected the space between them, and in that stillness, he could not help but ask himself why he had not looked at her in that way more often.
Suddenly, the corridor outside the drawing room carried voices more lightly than it should have.
At first, it was only the tone that reached them, a familiar brightness that did not belong to any of the servants; then words followed.
It was Cordelia.
His attention turned to the door as they both listened to her. He did not want to; the last thing that he wanted was for her to be there, but he could not help himself.
“And he is still presenting her as though she belongs here,” Cordelia’s voice drifted in. “It is rather sweet, in a way. A young bride placed into a life she has not yet learned to manage properly, and a determination to change a man that is entirely too set in his ways.”
There was a faint pause, followed by the quiet sound of another voice responding that was too low to be clearly heard.
“One almost admires the effort,” she continued. “Though I confess I had imagined something more substantial for him rather than her. Then again, when one is in need of convenience, they will take what they can get.”
Alexander stopped listening at that point.
He had heard more than enough to know that he would not stand for it.
He was not a perfect husband, but that did not mean he hated his wife.
Eleanor was not a convenience to him, and even if their marriage was not one built on love, that did not mean he could allow her to be disrespected so brazenly.
When he finally moved, it was not abrupt. He turned away from Eleanor without explanation, stepping past her with a brief pause that suggested acknowledgment rather than dismissal.
“Remain here,” he said quietly.
It was not a command spoken sharply, nor was it softened into comfort. It was simply final in a way that allowed no negotiation. Before she could respond, he had already left the room.
Eleanor remained where she was, and outside, the voices sharpened slightly as Alexander approached. Cordelia’s tone, however, did not change when she saw him. If anything, she sounded entirely pleased with herself, as though she had succeeded in drawing him away from his wife.
“Alexander,” she said, as though his arrival were expected rather than disruptive.
He did not return the greeting.
“You will not speak of my wife in that manner,” he said at last.
The words were calm, but there was no ambiguity in them. Cordelia tilted her head slightly, studying him with a faint, knowing interest rather than offense.
“You are still so protective,” she murmured. “I wonder if it is loyalty, or simply a habit.”
Alexander did not answer. He did not need to, because he had made his thoughts known. He would not allow anyone to be cruel about Eleanor, no matter how long he had known them for.
But that unsettled him greatly, for he was not supposed to care that much about her. They were supposed to share an understanding, but he was not meant to be driven to losing his composure simply because someone had been unkind about her.
He had always been able to control himself, and it was the only reason he had survived at times, but Eleanor caused him to forget that entirely.
And, he found, he did not hate it as much as he wanted to.