Page 1

Lady Eleanor’s brush paused mid-stroke. Morning light slanted through the tall windows of her bedchamber, casting golden streaks across the carpet.

In doing so, it gently entangled itself in the flow of chestnut hair she had half-tamed. A linnet trilled somewhere beyond the open window, its notes bright against the soft rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze.

She had been about to finish her toilette and call for tea when the door creaked open behind her.

Lucy, her maid, entered with a cautious step and a folded slip of paper clutched in her hand.

“My Lady,” she said, in a low voice without meaning to intrude, “his lordship requests your presence in the study.”

The words struck with an unexpected chill. Eleanor set the brush down carefully, fingers suddenly cold against the polished wood of her vanity. Her gaze found Lucy’s in the mirror.

“The study?” she repeated. Not the morning room, not the breakfast table. The study. “Did Father say why?”

“No, My Lady. Only that he asks you to come at once.”

Eleanor stood slowly, smoothing her skirts as if the action might press the unease from her thoughts. Her pale blue morning gown whispered against her ankles as she moved, its muslin trailing soft shadows along the rug.

Such formal summonses were rare. Her father was not a man given to unnecessary gravity. However, when he did employ it, the air about Ravensdale thickened like a storm on the verge of breaking.

Lucy reached for Eleanor’s shawl, for it was a chilly morning, draping it across her shoulders with quiet efficiency.

Eleanor murmured thanks, her mind already far ahead, sifting through recent events for anything that might warrant a private conversation with her father.

Had she been too abrupt with Lord Mortcombe at the Chiswick garden party? Had word reached him of the letter she had not yet answered from Lady Haversley’s son? It could be anything, really.

Her slippers tapped softly against the polished oak floor as she stepped into the corridor. The air beyond her chamber was even cooler, scented faintly of beeswax and roses from the vases lining the hallway niches.

Each step towards the east wing seemed to lengthen. She passed ancestral portraits that stared down with oil-darkened eyes, all solemn faces and powdered wigs. Her grandfather, the previous earl, glowered eternally from his gilt frame, and Eleanor resisted the impulse to glance away.

Ravensdale had always been a house of expectations, of quiet demands spoken in tones so calm one could mistake them for kindness.

Outside the study door, she paused. The heavy wood stood shut, a barrier that felt more symbolic than usual. She pressed a hand against the polished surface, steadied her breath, and knocked once.

“Enter,” came the earl’s voice from within. It was clipped and unmistakably formal.

Eleanor turned the brass handle and stepped inside.

The study was dimmer than the corridor, the curtains half-drawn against the morning glare.

Shelves of leather-bound volumes lined the walls, and the air smelled of tobacco, vellum, and the faintest trace of lavender polish.

Her father sat behind the great walnut desk, his posture impeccably upright, having his fingers laced before him.

His grey eyes met hers with an unreadable expression.

“Eleanor,” he said. “Close the door, if you please.”

Her heart gave a quiet thud. She obeyed, while her father wasted no time.

“You are to marry Lord Nathaniel Fairfax,” he said as if announcing the weather or the quarterly profits from the South Sea Company.

“The contract was signed yesterday. The banns will not be read. There is no need. We have secured a special licence. The wedding shall take place within the fortnight.”

Eleanor stood frozen just inside the doorway. She felt the words strike her chest like cold water, so utterly sharp, shocking, and difficult to breathe through.

“I—” She faltered. “I beg your pardon, Father, I believe I misheard you. I’ve never even spoken to Lord Fairfax.”

“You have no need to speak with him before the wedding,” he replied, adjusting the signet ring on his little finger. “You may speak with him after.”

She stepped forward, the hem of her gown whispering across the Axminster carpet. Her voice trembled with restrained disbelief, “But surely … surely my consent is required.”

The Earl of Ravensdale gave a soft, humourless exhale. It was a sound that was not quite a sigh, and not quite a laugh.

“You are of age, yes. But you are also my daughter. And a Henshaw. Which means your consent is merely a formality.”

Her composure, always so carefully arranged, began to splinter at the edges.

“Father, please—”

“Eleanor.” His tone sharpened. “Enough. This alliance has been under discussion for months. The Fairfaxes are expanding their trade routes, new holdings in Calcutta, and a stake in the port at Liverpool. Your marriage secures their capital for Ravensdale’s investments.

It ensures the estate’s future. Your brothers are either married or abroad. That only leaves you.”

The final word rang through the room like a gavel. You. Not daughter, not Eleanor. You, the piece left on the board.

“But, I do not love him,” she whispered, shame and fury tightening her throat.

Her father leaned back in his chair, studying her as if she were some troublesome line in a ledger. “Love,” he said, almost gently, “is not the matter here. This is a sound match. He is titled, wealthy, and childless. You will want for nothing.”

“Except choice,” she said. “Except voice.”

The earl’s expression did not change. “You were raised for this, Eleanor. I have given you books, tutors, languages, music—every refinement. But those were privileges, not indulgences. We do not waste daughters in this family. We marry them well.”

A long silence followed. The tick of the longcase clock filled the space between them, marking time she no longer had.

When she finally turned, her knees were trembling beneath her skirts. She did not curtsy. She did not speak.

She opened the door, stepped into the hall, and walked away with as much grace as she could muster.

But once beyond the threshold, once the heavy door had shut behind her with a final, irrevocable click, Eleanor’s composure slipped. Her breath came shallow, suffocating even.

The corridor blurred. The portraits along the walls, all those ancestors, those patriarchs seemed to watch her with quiet indictment.

Eleanor did not go to her chamber. Her feet carried her, without conscious thought, down the west staircase and into the morning room, trailing the ghost of her composure behind her like a torn hem.

The scent of lemon oil and spring blooms hung in the air, the windows thrown open to the garden, where bees droned lazily in the sunlit lavender.

Lucy followed close behind, silent as a shadow, but with worry etched deep between her brows.

“Shall I fetch tea, My Lady?” she asked, already reaching for the bell.

“No … not yet,” Eleanor murmured, brushing trembling fingers down the front of her gown. “Just … stay a moment.”

Charlotte Godwin, Eleanor’s companion and secretary, was sitting by the window, curled into the light like a cat, with a book forgotten in her lap. She looked up at Eleanor’s entrance, and her eyes momentarily brightened with interest.

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word as if it were a ribbon, “either the prince regent has eloped with your Aunt Philomena or something has rattled you, my dear Eleanor. Which is it?”

Eleanor gave a choked laugh, and that fragile sound broke the last of the pressure building in her chest.

She crossed the room in three quick strides and dropped beside Charlotte on the window seat, heedless of decorum, as her hands twisted together in her lap.

“I am to marry the Marquess of Loxley,” she said flatly but felt as if the words burned her tongue more than hot tea ever could.

There was a pause.

Then Charlotte blinked. “What?”

Lucy turned aside, busying herself with the tea things, though her ears plainly strained to catch every word.

“My father informed me just now. The contract is signed. The licence acquired. The announcement will be made today, and the ceremony is to follow within the fortnight. Apparently, my opinions on the matter are irrelevant.”

Charlotte stared, mouth slightly open. Then her brow furrowed. “But … Lord Loxley? Nathaniel Fairfax, the Marquess of Loxley?”

Eleanor gave her a pointed look. “Is there another?”

“Well,” Charlotte said slowly, “you could hardly expect a clergyman or a farmer to be named Loxley, could you? It sounds like a man carved from granite and dropped into a cravat.” She paused, eyes narrowing.

“I’ve seen him. Once or twice. At Almack’s, and again at that dull musicale Lady Eastwick insisted upon.

Very tall. Striking. Storm-coloured eyes. ”

“Storm-coloured,” Eleanor echoed, grimacing.

Charlotte gave a dramatic sigh, leaning back against the window frame. “Oh, don’t look like that. He was striking. Though not precisely warm. Rather … austere. Very reserved. Possibly humourless.”

“Charming,” Eleanor muttered, sinking further into herself.

Charlotte turned her head to study her friend. “You’ve never met him?”

“I’ve never spoken to him. I’ve seen him at a distance, though. He’s always in black, never dances, and looks as if he’s already judged the whole room guilty of some minor social crime.” She exhaled hard. “I’m to belong to that man. Like a parcel.”

Charlotte reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’re not a parcel, Ellie.”

“No,” she whispered, “but I’ve been packaged all the same.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, the room humming with sunlight and unsaid things. In the distance, a dove called lazily from the hedge. Eleanor’s heart beat too quickly in her chest, her skin prickling despite the warmth.

She couldn’t escape the indignation she was feeling, the just, proper fury at being bartered like fine china. And yet ...

Storm-coloured eyes.

What if the rumours were wrong? What if Lord Loxley, for all his severity, wasn’t cruel, but kind? Worse … what if she found herself drawn to him, longing for his approval the way she had never longed for any suitor’s before?

The thought sent a tremor through her.

Desire was dangerous. It clouded judgement. It made women foolish, pliable, blind.

And yet … she wondered.

Even more foolishly, she hoped.

“What are you thinking?” Charlotte asked, tilting her head.

Eleanor blinked, startled. “Nothing.”

Charlotte gave her a sly smile. “You look like someone thinking something they won’t say aloud.”

“I am,” Eleanor said, then added softly, “and I won’t.”

She rose before her thoughts could tangle further, crossing to the window and gripping the sill.

Outside, the roses bloomed wild and heavy on the trellis. Inside, her world had changed entirely and the man at the centre of that change was tall, unreadable, and possibly humourless.

She might loathe him. She might long for him. And she could not quite decide which would frighten her more.

Charlotte followed suit and stood up. Then, she stretched like a cat, smoothing her skirts with uncharacteristic seriousness.

“Come now, Eleanor. You need air and motion, not stuffy rooms and political marriages. You should go for a ride to clear your head. You’ve got that look again, the one that means you’ll either burst into tears or start reciting Byron.”

Eleanor hesitated. Her thoughts swirled like mist, thick and shifting, impossible to pin down. But the idea of the open path, the wind against her cheeks, the steady rhythm of hooves striking earth … it tugged at her like a tether.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I shall take you up on that offer. Maybe a ride through Hyde Park is just what I need. There aren’t many people there this early in the morning.”

Within minutes, Lucy was fastening the row of tiny silver buttons down the front of Eleanor’s dark blue riding habit, the wool soft beneath her fingers, but the collar stiff with elegance.

The fitted bodice and long sweeping skirt felt like armour more than attire. It was something she could disappear into, if only for an hour.

As Lucy reached up to adjust her cravat, Eleanor caught a glimpse of herself in the tall mirror by the hearth.

The woman reflected there stood straight and composed, her features strangely calm, even serene. But her eyes held a tension that did not belong to a girl at all. She looked like someone being shaped. Positioned. Prepared.

Not simply a daughter now. Not simply Eleanor.

Lady Loxley.

She swallowed hard at the name she was to take.

Charlotte flounced into the room, already gloved and wearing her usual wide-brimmed hat with an overabundance of ribbons. “You’ll scandalize half of Mayfair if you glare like that from horseback. Someone will think you’ve taken a pistol to your lover.”

Eleanor shot her a look.

Charlotte grinned. “Oh, come now. You’ve always had a weakness for a handsome face.”

“I have not,” Eleanor said, stunned with mock shock.

“You have,” Charlotte replied cheerfully. “Remember Mr Allerton with the square jawline? You barely heard a word he said.”

Eleanor had to laugh. “What? That was you, you scandalous thing!”

“Oh, yes.” Charlotte giggled playfully. “But that’s because he only ever spoke about himself and the superiority of Norfolk hunting dogs.”

“And he had dimples,” Eleanor teased.

Charlotte laughed again, taking her friend by the hand. “Go on, my dear. Off with you now. You need to change the course of this day and make it a fine one.”

Eleanor smiled. She wanted to believe her friend. Only, that was easier said than done.