Chapter 18
Alexander recognized, standing in the middle of the garden party, that he had spent years mastering the art of distance.
It had kept him alive during the war, allowing him to separate himself from fear, from grief, from the faces of the men who had followed him into battle and the memories that followed him home.
Distance had been a shield, something that allowed him to endure what he otherwise might not have survived.
But lately, that shield had begun to fail him. He had tried to remain detached where Eleanor was concerned. Their marriage had been arranged for practical reasons, and he had entered into it with clear expectations.
He would provide her with security, a respected position, and a name that would protect her from the whispers of society. In return, she would maintain a respectable household and ask nothing more of him. It had been sensible. It had been simple.
Except Eleanor was no longer simply the woman he had married out of obligation. She had become the person he searched for when entering a room, and their conversations were the most important part of his day, regardless of what they were about.
Alexander disliked how much that realization unsettled him. He stood at the edge of the lawn, watching the gathering continue around him while pretending to listen to the conversations nearby. In truth, his attention had already settled elsewhere.
On Eleanor.
She stood with Henry, her expression softer than Alexander had seen it in days. Henry had always possessed an effortless ability to draw laughter from people, something Alexander had never understood and had never attempted to imitate. Where Alexander carried silence, Henry filled it.
Eleanor laughed at something his friend said. The sound carried across the lawn, and Alexander found himself watching longer than he should have.
It was not the polite smile she offered guests or the carefully composed smile she wore when performing her duties as the duchess. This was something different, something unguarded, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply observe her.
Then Julian Sinclair approached. The change in Alexander was immediate.
He watched the earl join Eleanor with the same confidence that had irritated him since his arrival.
Julian spoke as though there was still an intimacy between them, as though years had not passed and circumstances had not changed.
Alexander remained still, but every part of him was suddenly alert. He hated the feeling that rose within him.
Jealousy.
It was unreasonable. Eleanor had never given him any reason to doubt her.
She had entered their marriage honestly, accepting the terms he had offered.
She had shown him kindness despite his distance and patience despite his coldness, and yet the sight of another man standing beside her still tightened something in his chest.
Then Eleanor’s smile changed. The warmth that had been present with Henry disappeared. She became more reserved, her body growing rigid as Julian continued speaking. Alexander could not hear the words, but he recognized the effect they had. Whatever Julian said, Eleanor did not welcome it.
When she answered, there was a firmness in the way she held herself that he could see even across the distance between them.
A moment later, she turned away from the earl, leaving him standing alone.
Alexander watched her walk away, and a strange feeling stirred within him.
It was hope, and it was small and fragile, but it existed.
Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps the past between Eleanor and Julian was not what he had imagined, and the familiarity he had feared was nothing more than a memory of something that no longer remained. The thought should have relieved him.
Instead, it frightened him, because hope meant wanting, and Alexander had spent years convincing himself that wanting anything only created something else to lose.
He left the gathering before anyone could notice his distraction and wandered toward the gardens.
The quiet of the grounds had become easier to endure since Eleanor arrived.
What had once been empty space now carried traces of her presence everywhere.
New flowers lined the pathways, and small signs of life had begun appearing in corners of the estate that had been neglected for years.
She had brought change into Ashbourne without even knowing.
He stopped when he saw her. Eleanor was asleep beneath the shade of a tree, her journal resting partly hidden in the grass beside her. One hand lay near the open pages, peaceful in a way he rarely saw when she was awake.
For several moments, Alexander remained where he was.
The sight of her felt strangely intimate.
Without the practiced smile she carried throughout the day, without the expectations of being the Duchess of Ashbourne weighing upon her, she seemed more like the woman he had glimpsed in rare moments and never allowed himself to know.
His gaze moved toward the journal. He knew immediately what it was, and he also knew he needed to leave it alone, but temptation came quickly.
What had she written inside those pages? Had she written about the estate, or their marriage? Had she recorded every moment where he had failed her?
The thought unsettled him. He could know. A few seconds was all it would take, but the knowledge would come at the cost of something he could not take back—her trust.
Alexander looked away from the journal and forced himself to step closer, only to remove his cloak. He carefully placed it over her shoulders, making certain not to disturb her.
The simple act felt far more intimate than it should have. His fingers lingered for a brief moment before he withdrew. Eleanor shifted slightly beneath the cloak but did not wake.
Alexander remained there for another heartbeat, watching her, then he turned away.
As he walked back toward the house, the weight inside him felt heavier rather than lighter. He had faced battlefields without hesitation. He had marched toward danger knowing there was every possibility he would not return.
And in spite of all that, it was standing beside a sleeping woman he cared about that had left him uncertain, afraid, and unwilling to face the truth.
***
The storm arrived without warning.
One moment, the evening air had been still, the last traces of daylight fading softly across the gardens. The next, the sky had darkened with startling speed, heavy clouds rolling over Ashbourne as thunder rumbled in the distance.
Alexander stood by the window of his study, watching the first drops of rain strike against the glass. His thoughts returned, as they always seemed to, to Eleanor.
Eleanor had not chosen Ashbourne. She had not chosen him.
She had been brought into the household because duty demanded it, and he had accepted her agreement without ever stopping to consider what it had cost her.
She had left behind everything familiar to enter a house that carried his name, his memories, and his rules.
A cage could still be gilded. That did not make it freedom.
Alexander turned away from the window, reaching for his coat.
He had no reason to think she was still outside.
He knew that, but he also knew Eleanor well enough to understand that the garden had become more than a garden to her.
It was the one place where she belonged, the one place where she was not merely performing the role expected of her, and she would be out there.
He could not leave her there in a storm, not when he was the reason she had needed somewhere else to escape. He pulled on his coat quickly and left the study, ignoring the questions of the passing servants as he made his way outside.
The rain struck him immediately when he walked outside. Within moments, his hair was damp, his shoulders soaked through, and the cold water ran down his face.
Strangely, he welcomed it. For once, there was no expectation to appear composed, no one watching him to see if he was the Duke of Ashbourne or the broken soldier who had returned from war. There was only the rain and the uncomfortable truth he could no longer ignore.
He had trapped her, perhaps not deliberately or cruelly, but he had. She deserved someone who could give her more than a house and a name. She deserved someone who could give her happiness.
Alexander walked deeper into the garden, his concern growing with every step. Then he saw movement ahead and stopped. Eleanor stood several yards away, walking toward him through the rain.
She was soaked through, her hair damp and falling loosely around her shoulders, her gown heavy from the water. Her arms were wrapped around herself as she shivered against the cold.
For a moment, Alexander could do nothing but stare.
“What are you doing out here?”
The question came out sharper than he intended. Eleanor looked at him, startled.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
He ignored the answer, immediately removing his coat.
“You should not be standing in the rain.”
“Neither should you.”
“Eleanor.”
Something in his voice made her fall quiet. He stepped toward her and placed the coat around her shoulders, ensuring it covered her properly despite the fact that he was now left without protection from the storm. Her fingers curled around the edges of the fabric.
“Alexander—”
“Come inside.”
She studied him for a moment, as though she wanted to argue, but eventually nodded. They returned to the house in silence, Alexander stealing glances at her as he always did.
By the time they reached the drawing room, servants had already prepared the fire. Alexander dismissed them gently, wanting privacy, and guided Eleanor toward the warmth of the hearth.
“You need dry clothes,” he said.
“I know.”
“And something warm to drink.”
“I know that as well.”
In spite of everything, a faint trace of amusement crossed her face. It disappeared quickly, but Alexander noticed. He noticed everything she did.