Page 17

He had looked lost—more lost than she had ever seen or thought him capable of. She could only hope that the bloom and her intervention could somewhat heal the chasm between them. A way to reach a better understanding and make her life more bearable at Everdawn Hall.

So, once she was finished for the day, she went to prepare the first part of her gesture.

“Enter.” The Duke’s voice drifted through the thick, wooden door to his study, low and distracted, as if his work had exhausted him.

Eleanor opened the door, finding him not looking at her but down at the papers strewn across his desk.

“I thought it would be you,” he commented. “The butler has permission to enter regardless, and Theodore simply pushes the door open, unannounced.”

“Theodore?” Eleanor echoed.

“Ah.” He looked up at her, sighing. “The Marquess of Avington. He is a close friend of mine.”

“You have close fri—never mind.” She broke off when he scowled. “May I meet him?”

“No.” She must have flinched, for he grimaced. “Not yet, at least. For what it is worth, he is eager to meet you, but not yet. Did you need anything, Duchess?”

Why do you keep addressing me so formally when we are already married?

She did not dare say that out loud. She knew she had already crossed boundaries; she could not risk crossing more by asking if he wished to drop the formalities.

“I wished to bring you these,” she replied, quickly moving into the hallway to retrieve a plate and reentering the study. “I often baked at St. Euphemia’s, so I asked the cook if I could use the kitchen for a few hours. I thought the poor woman would faint.”

“As I keep telling you, you are indulging in things below you,” he reminded her.

But she truly didn’t care.

“Then I shall take these back to my room, where I will eat them alone,” she said, lifting the plate of honey cakes.

That caught the Duke’s attention.

He lowered his quill to the desk, an eyebrow raised in interest. “Do not be so hasty.”

He tried to sound annoyed, but his eyes said differently.

Eleanor approached his desk and set down the plate.

“It is to make up for teasing you in the village,” she said. “But it is also a thank-you. You keep buying me everything, and I feel as though I have not been grateful enough. You have provided a great deal for me—provided everything —so a plate of honey cakes is hardly enough…”

He regarded her for so long that she almost backtracked, regretting her idea, thinking it foolish. But then he reached for a cake and took a bite.

His face was stoic for a moment as he chewed, and then his eyes fluttered shut.

Heavens .

Spencer almost moaned as sugar and honey burst on his tongue, held together in a doughy pastry.

This is delicious.

What he tasted was pure heaven in a bite, and his lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile, displaying blatantly how much he enjoyed that single bite. He nudged the plate toward her, saying nothing, but she picked up a cake and bit into it just as he took his next mouthful.

He silently swore that he would not stop her from gardening or baking. Not if the result was something this delicious.

He had not realized he’d closed his eyes again in pleasure until he opened them and found her smiling. Her eyes were so soft, the tilt of her mouth a bit hesitant, and Spencer…

Heaven help him, he was not prepared to see it for the first time, not in such an unguarded manner. One word came to his mind— beautiful . And even that was not enough.

For a moment, all he could do was hold the rest of the cake, gazing at her.

He could not look away, and he was not prepared for what his heart did at the sight of her smile. He had not been prepared for any reaction, really.

He cleared his throat, nodding at her. “These are excellent,” he said.

Her smile faltered ever so slightly, as if she had expected a longer compliment.

“I must return to my work.”

“Of course,” Eleanor mumbled.

She retreated to the door and hovered on the threshold, her smile gone. Spencer already missed it, already wondered what would bring it back.

His reaction had broken through layers of pain and trauma from years at the convent and made her smile again. He could not just ignore that.

“And just so you are aware, I really enjoy baking. Perhaps I can bring more desserts when your work stretches into the late hours?”

“Perhaps,” he answered in a tight voice.

And then she was gone.

Yet Spencer could swear he smelled jasmine in the air even long after she had left.

Even when his study fell silent, he could not stop looking at the honey cakes, imagining her delicate hands kneading the dough, drizzling the honey, and preparing the filling.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to return to his work, to turn his focus back to all the information he had collected about Southgate Dockyard.

Over the following week, Spencer discarded three notes from Theodore, asking when he would meet the new Duchess.

Each time a new one came in, more sharply worded than the last, Spencer swore he would answer back, but then Eleanor would enter his study with another cake, another coin-sized treat, and he would forget everything as soon as he tasted her next creation.

Heavens above, she made the most heavenly desserts.

It happened so often that week that he started waiting for them, and he felt irritated at the realization.

But the week after, he noticed that she did not appear at her usual time, just before dinner.

He let another half hour pass, albeit distractedly, before he rose from his chair and left the study.

The convent, he realized, had instilled a routine in Eleanor.

He noticed that she arrived at breakfast at the same minute and began her day at the same hour, and if she was ever late, it ate away at her. So, it was not like her to break that routine.

Spencer then wondered how he allowed himself to think that he knew her so intimately. Regardless, he had come to look forward to those visits she made to his study. Not just for the treats, but because she smiled more freely every time he tasted what she offered.

And he had grown to crave it.

When she was not in her chamber, or the library—which, amusedly, he had noticed she avoided—or the dining room, he realized there was only one place she would be. But the sky was dark with a storm that had been raging for the last couple of days.

One of Theodore’s notes had said as much, hinting that he should visit them just before the storm hit, lest he conveniently be stuck there, with nothing to do but get to know Eleanor.

Spencer’s heart rate quickened as he made his way to the entrance Eleanor usually used to get to the garden, finding her flowerbeds already waterlogged by the battering rain.

As soon as he went deeper into the garden, the wind picked up, almost throwing him to the side. He hurried down the pathway to the infernal greenhouse she adored, only to hear the sound of shattering glass above the howling wind.

“Eleanor!” he shouted, running for the greenhouse.

He heard a grunt of pain, and he rounded the corner to find the door swinging wildly on its hinges while his wife stood in the doorway, teetering on a step ladder as she checked the broken window above the door.

He froze in horror for a moment as the rain poured into the greenhouse through the broken window and door.

Her foot slipped on the step, and her arms flailed. She let out a cry as she scrambled for balance, catching her hand on the broken glass.

Spencer growled and darted toward her right as a gust of wind battered through the doorway, knocking her off her perch.

He caught her right as she tumbled off the ladder, a scream tearing from her throat.

Blood smeared the glass and his sleeves as she fought off his hold while—ironically—grabbing onto him.

“Stop fighting me, or you will send us both—” He broke off as another gust of wind threw them off balance.

They careened to the floor, but Spencer righted himself immediately, finding his wife muddy and wet, her hand bleeding.

Those fierce, brown eyes glared up at him. “I was perfectly fine until you interfered!”

“You were on a step ladder in the direct path of a storm,” he snapped, yanking off his coat, feeling the familiarity of it from the day he had rescued her. Judging by the flicker in her eyes, she thought the same.

“I do not need?—”

“Simply accept the help,” he cut her off, helping her to her feet. “If you insist on working in this old, crumbling thing, then you will accept my help when things go wrong.”

“Why is it so neglected anyway?” Eleanor shouted over the howling wind.

Spencer glowered at her, silently asking if that was truly what she wanted to discuss at that moment. But before she could answer, he led her out of the greenhouse and back toward the house, into the drawing room.

“Wait here,” he instructed, making sure she sat down, and then he left the room to fetch some bandages for her injured hand. He also called for some tea to warm her up.

When he returned, he crouched before her, noticing that she had pulled his coat tighter around herself. She kept scowling at him even as her teeth chattered.

“You do not have to do that,” she muttered. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” he said.

“I do not think you do.” She sighed, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “When we were in the inn, you said that you would stop catching me.”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, long enough until tea was served and Eleanor picked up her cup with her uninjured hand. “It seems you still need catching, Duchess.”

“I think it is more your ego, liking being the hero.” Her eyebrows knitted together as he took her hand and gently cleaned it of mud. She bit back every wince, but he felt her tense up. “I am not the delicate flower you think I am.”

He fell quiet.

He did not know how to say that he knew, that he had seen the state of her knees the day he had rescued her from the nuns. That he knew she had tended to them herself, painstakingly and secretively.

When he didn’t answer, only focusing on tending to her hand, she spoke up again.

“Another question, then,” she whispered. “Why do you never call me by my name?”

“Because that’s the proper thing to do,” he told her, unable to take the hard edge out of his voice quick enough. “Because we should remain formal.”

Because calling you by your name so casually would make me feel like I am taking advantage of you. I cannot afford to take liberties with you.

“Is it?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

Silence enveloped them for another few minutes as he wrapped the bandage around the cut on her palm.

When he looked at her, he found her gaze already on him, searching his face. He realized she was looking at him openly—at his scar and everything else about him, every feature he could not bear to look at since he was seven-and-ten.

“Why are you always angry with me?” she asked.

His jaw clenched. This time, he did not keep the answer to himself, a confession slipping free, unbidden. “Because I do not know how else to want you.”

More silence ensued, making his chest ache when he looked back at her. Making him move closer to her.

The silence pulled him to her, pulled him toward the desire he had fought for hours—had perhaps fought since he had seen her in the library the night he had first met her.

He told himself he would not kiss her, and yet he crushed his mouth to hers, unable to hold back any longer.

Eleanor froze. She froze so suddenly that he almost wrenched himself back. But then her other hand rose, her fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. His breath caught as he kissed her again.

A low sound tore from her throat, almost a soft groan, as if she, too, had been aching for the kiss.

“Eleanor,” he murmured, saving the taste of her.

Formalities be damned . I want her, and I do not know how to stop wanting her.

Her name rolled off his tongue, barely coherent for how soon he took her lips in another searing kiss.

Eleanor pressed close, and he leaned into her, almost pressing her back into the cushions. She arched against him, her hand moving from his neck to his jaw, cupping his face. Her thumb brushed his scar, and he had to stifle a groan, for she touched it like it was nothing.

He consumed her, drunk on her taste and scent, knowing that she could never bring him another dessert and hope it was good, for nothing was sweeter than her. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt his member stiffening with need.

A knock sounded at the door before it was opened, and Spencer jerked back so abruptly that he startled both himself and Eleanor. Her eyes were wide, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Your Grace, I came to see if everything was all right,” one of the footmen said, ignoring what he had seen—or perhaps he had not seen anything. “I heard a crash from outside.”

Spencer cleared his throat. “All is well, thank you. In fact, I-I should speak with Fulton to have the greenhouse checked over. There… there should be no more incidents.”

Without another word, he quickly left the drawing room, muttering about how incidents led to dangerous situations and they ought to be avoided.