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Chapter Thirteen

“ L ord Heswall is planning to start a new business in London, Your Grace. Have you heard?”

The question came from Lord Milborne, a man who had recently inherited a barony. The way his eyes kept flicking to Eleanor had not gone unnoticed.

Several days after his venture into the village, Spencer found himself in Lord Heswall’s drawing room, surrounded by the local gentry and their associates and relatives.

Businessmen, merchants, and barons mingled, and although Spencer had originally worried that it was not the company his wife desired, he quickly retracted his initial judgment.

Conversation flowed well, and he found himself interested in how the neighboring villages and estates were faring. It filled in the gaps of the knowledge he had already sought.

“I have, indeed,” he answered. “The two of us drank to it in his drawing room several days ago.”

“I believe a business venture toasted by His Grace is destined for greatness,” Lord Heswall boomed, lifting his champagne flute. “And if my new business does well, then I will be a happy man.”

“I, for one, already have my eye on one of the canes you showed me sketches of,” another man spoke up. “I think my cousin will like it. She says that her knee does not hurt, but I believe it does.”

“Perhaps she can be my first customer,” Lord Heswall joked, grinning.

“Maybe Her Grace can be.”

That came from Lord Milborne’s young cousin, who stood off to the side with a small group of women. Her face was pale, her features pinched, and Spencer narrowed his eyes at her.

He spotted Eleanor nearby, not missing the way her shoulders stiffened.

“After all, I heard that she limps at times due to aching knees. Strange, I thought that hay is a thick enough cushion.”

Spencer’s hand curled into a fist. The woman had the gall to hint at the rumors about his wife.

“He accused me of compromising myself with one of his stablehands…”

But Eleanor merely sipped her champagne before answering gracefully, “It sounds as though you know from experience, Miss… Ah, do forgive me. I have forgotten your name. Since I became a duchess, I have met so many people that it’s hard to remember everyone.”

Someone across the room coughed to stifle a laugh. Spencer suppressed his own smile.

The young girl’s face contorted with shock, before she narrowed her eyes at Eleanor.

But disgraced or not, Eleanor was the Duchess of Everdawn now, and the Baron’s cousin was risking her status by trying to humiliate her further.

“My name is Miss Olivia ,” she sniffed. “You would do well to remember that you are not much better than us, Your Grace. It does a lady well to remember her roots, after all.”

“Ah, but Her Grace is the daughter of an earl. Is that not right?” Lord Milborne interjected, clearly aware that she could get them both into trouble.

Spencer himself was two seconds away from snapping, but he did not want to cause a scene on such a happy occasion. And perhaps part of him was curious to see Eleanor defend herself.

“That is right,” she said, not taking her eyes off Olivia. “It was quite a climb to become a duchess.”

“And yet your reward for such a climb is more of an advantage to us all,” Lord Milborne offered, before his cousin could open her mouth.

His response caught Spencer’s attention.

“I only regret that His Grace found you first.” He lowered his voice.

“Had I been in the Caribbean when you were, I would have shown you a real party, but not one that is… as socially accepted as the soiree you met at.”

Spencer’s ire flared further, but Eleanor merely raised an eyebrow. “I assure you that the soiree was most sufficient, Lord Milborne,” she said politely, her smile lingering. “Now, I’m a happily married woman.”

Spencer’s jaw ticked as he noticed the way the Baron kept staring at her.

“I can tell by that smile of yours, Your Grace,” Lord Milborne complimented. “It brightens the whole room.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” she responded softly.

“I do hope His Grace appreciates the beauty he has married.” His tone was teasing now.

Spencer’s patience was wearing thin. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the small of Eleanor’s back. Her spine stiffened, but he kept his eyes on Lord Milborne, daring him to continue.

The Baron was smarter than his cousin, however, and he gave a small nod as if conceding defeat. He mumbled something about speaking with another lord in the dining room.

Not long after, the gong sounded for dinner, and the guests started filing out of the room.

Eleanor went to move in the same direction, but Spencer blocked her path discreetly. Her hard stare met his.

“Did you miss male attention, wife?” he asked coldly.

She curled her lip, looking insulted. “I missed kindness, not attention.” Stepping back, she shook her head.

“You would do well to recall why I appreciate kindness from a man, why I will not take such sentiments for granted.” She sighed, fixing him with a cool look.

“I shall see you at the dinner table, husband .”

Without waiting for his response, she stalked out of the drawing room, leaving him behind, taken aback by her anger. He followed several paces behind her and joined her at the table right as the first course was served.

Soon enough, the conversation shifted from whispered speculation about Eleanor that had Spencer’s fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass, and veered toward him when the main course was served.

“Lord Heswall tells me you are settled now, Your Grace.”

It was the Viscount Monty’s young son, Robert Stanley, whom Spencer had recognized from a ball he had accompanied Charlotte to not long ago.

“I am,” he confirmed.

“You must have missed Everdawn,” Mr. Stanley pressed, his eyes sparkling with intrigue.

Spencer could not tell if he was deliberately stirring up trouble or if he was genuinely curious.

“I… did,” he agreed, before quickly changing the topic. “Lord Heswall, this wine?—”

“I imagine there is no place like home, then,” Mr. Stanley continued. “After all, if you readily brought an end to your travels, Everdawn must be so special.”

“It is home, and I had a duty to fulfill,” Spencer uttered, a quiet warning in his tone.

Drop it. Do not ? —

“Why did you remove yourself from Society for so long, Your Grace?” Lord Milborne piped up. “There is so much speculation, and you must be itching to dispel the rumors, no?”

“I do not care for rumors,” Spencer stated, feeling rather cornered.

It was not a familiar feeling—one he avoided at all costs. But now, with almost every eye trained on him, he tried to mask his rising panic.

“I must admit, I’ve often wondered why,” Mr. Stanley said lightly.

“I overheard at my club that your constant travels have something to do with your scar. A rather dreadful thing, that. Though it seems not to have frightened off Her Grace. Most fortunate, for I daresay that other men wouldn’t have been so lucky. ”

Spencer was lost. Lost in their comments and judgment, his tongue too heavy in his mouth.

“Perhaps the women he met liked the exoticness.” Lord Milborne sniggered. He was already into his third glass of wine, his speech slurred, his manners more careless.

“Excuse me, Lord Milborne.” Eleanor’s voice cut cleanly through the laughter and idle chatter.

“Forgive my boldness, but it appears you and Mr. Stanley need a reminder about proper conduct. A scar is neither something to recoil from nor a curiosity to gossip about. If the cause has not been disclosed to you, it is because it is no concern of yours.”

“We only want to set the record straight, Your Grace,” Lord Milborne snorted, looking at her as though he did not understand why she was making such a fuss.

“And my husband does not have to answer to anybody,” she said sharply.

She shot him and Mr. Stanley a hard look before she resumed eating.

Spencer did not quite know what to say, but he glared at the men, ensuring they remained silent.

He had considered speaking quietly to his wife. Instead, he had been stunned into silence when she had leaped to his defense.

It was not a rare occurrence for him to keep his silence. However, he loathed it when it happened against his will. There was power in choosing to be silent, and weakness in being rendered it.

But something shifted within him—something soft, something deep. Something he had carefully buried as he had traveled across countries and continents. Something he had vowed to never feel, so he was never tied to anybody who would never understand him, whom he would never have to disappoint.

Something he was not ready to feel .

Yet it stirred, and it stirred more so when he gazed at Eleanor. She did not meet his eyes, but simply returned to her dinner as though defending him was a very casual occurrence.

Spencer could not recall the last time anybody had done that. He frowned down at his dinner plate, his appetite gone.

The day after, Eleanor returned to the greenhouse to find a small pot waiting for her on the top step of a wooden ladder. No note was left with it, but she recognized the jasmine bloom immediately, and her heart soared.

A smile was already curving her mouth before she could suppress it and begin working on the next part of her project. Every now and then, she caught sight of the bloom and recalled the Duke’s face as he had teased her in front of the florist.

A thought occurred to her, a way to return the gesture, for she did not doubt that it was the Duke who had left the pot there.

As she worked, her thoughts drifted to the way he had spoken to her, to his cold question about seeking male attention.

Despite her indignation, her first response to Milborne and Monty’s incessant needling had been to defend him.

She had endured too much gossip to let the whispers about him fly over her head.