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To say that she was excited would be a dire understatement. Upon reading the letter, she realized that she could not focus on reading any longer, as her mind kept drifting to the evening ahead.

To be quite honest, she couldn’t understand why they couldn’t speak like they did the first time. Well, she was angry with him. That made the whole thing easier.

But now, it seemed that they both retreated into their own worlds, as if afraid that those exact two worlds might collide and bring unspeakable destruction.

Eleanor tried many a distraction during the following two hours.

She was persistent at reading but to no avail.

She endeavoured a walk through the garden, but her mind could not focus on the blossoming flowers either.

She paced about the garden room for a while but then decided to retire to her chamber.

She had just ascended the staircase when she heard the distinct tap of heels on marble. The duchess emerged from the corridor like a ship under full sail, swathed in lavender silk that whispered with every step.

Her chin was held at its usual elevation, which was just high enough to suggest condescension without the vulgarity of open disdain.

“My dear,” she began smoothly, intercepting Eleanor with the sort of unhurried elegance that made escape impossible without appearing gauche. “I understand you have made arrangements for a private supper.”

Eleanor met her gaze without flinching. “Yes. In the morning room.”

The duchess paused just long enough for the silence to register.

“How quaint,” she said at last, voice as light and dry as sun-bleached linen. “Though the morning room, as its name suggests, is not traditionally used for evening meals.”

“Perhaps not,” Eleanor replied with a smile as cool and composed as her posture. “But I find it charming in the evening light.”

The duchess’ lips curved slightly. It was less a smile and more a baring of teeth.

“One does hope you are not attempting to alter the rhythm of the house too soon. Guests, of course, are indulged in their little preferences. But the mistress of a great estate must act in concert with the house, rather than against it.”

Eleanor folded her hands lightly in front of her.

And I quite agree, Your Grace. But I believe a house may learn to adjust to its inhabitants, as well as the other way around. Otherwise, it risks becoming a museum.

That was what she wanted to say, and she could already imagine the duchess’ brows lifting a fraction in shock. But instead, all she found the courage for was to agree.

“Yes, Your Grace.” She nodded, still determined to have that supper in the place she meant to.

The duchess regarded her for a moment longer, as her sharp eyes surveyed Eleanor’s face for a sign of rebellion. She found none. Only that calmness that Eleanor was adamant to keep about her.

“Good,” the duchess murmured, and with that, she glided past, while her scent lingered like judgement in the air.

Eleanor remained still for a breath longer, then turned towards the corridor again.

Her pulse had quickened slightly, but her expression did not betray it.

She knew the duchess’ displeasure was not merely about morning rooms or drapes for that matter, a comment she had heard from Lucy. No. It was about control.

But Eleanor had yielded enough in this arrangement already. She would not relinquish the little power she’d claimed. Especially not tonight.

***

Nathaniel hesitated just beyond the threshold of the morning room, as his one hand rested on the doorframe. He could see her before she saw him.

Eleanor was already seated, poised but not stiff, her back straight and her gaze tilted downwards towards the simple arrangement of white garden roses in the centre of the table.

The room had been subtly transformed. It was nothing ostentatious, just fresh linens, beeswax candles flickering gently in their sconces, and a light, clean scent in the air. Evening light streamed through the tall windows in slanted golden bars, softening every edge.

She wore a gown of dove grey with the faintest sheen, its lines elegant but unadorned. There were no jewels and no embellishments.

He realized, perhaps for the first time, that she dressed not to impress, but to be seen as she was. Without artifice. Without defence. And somehow, that unsettled him more than any silks or diamonds could have.

He stepped forward. She looked up.

“Good evening,” he said simply.

“Good evening,” she returned. There was no coldness to her response, but no warmth either.

He made his way to the seat opposite her, aware of the quiet in the room. Not silence. There was the subtle clink of silver, the distant hum of the evening breeze at the windows, but a kind of careful stillness, as though neither of them wished to disturb what had been so delicately arranged.

“I must admit,” he said after a moment, smoothing his napkin across his lap, “I’ve never taken supper in the morning room before.”

Eleanor tilted her head slightly. “Then it’s a night of firsts, My Lord.”

He glanced up at her. The corner of her mouth lifted, just so.

“Does it bother you?” she asked, reaching for her glass. “Breaking with custom?”

He considered. “Only when custom has earned its place. Otherwise, it’s just stubborn habit with a better tailor.”

That drew a faint laugh from her. It wasn’t loud, but it was genuine.

“You surprise me, My Lord.”

“I’m told it’s a terrible habit. I try not to make it frequent.”

Their food arrived. The sight was a simple fare. Roast quail, soft potatoes with herbs, warm bread, and chilled white wine. The kind of meal one could actually enjoy without the scrutiny of ten footmen and his mother’s hawk-eyed disapproval.

Conversation began cautiously, like a minuet danced by strangers. Each phrase was a measured step, every silence was filled with unspoken uncertainties.

Nathaniel found himself watching her more than he meant to, noting the small, telling details: the way she smoothed the napkin in her lap before each reply, the flicker of her eyes towards the window when she hesitated, and most of all, her hands.

They moved more than her voice did, those hands. When she spoke of the garden room, of her plans to bring in climbing roses and soft armchairs, to peel back the ivy from the windows and let the sunlight in, her words remained composed.

But her fingers traced invisible outlines in the air, shaping the space as though it already existed beneath her touch.

“… and perhaps a chaise there,” Eleanor was saying, motioning to an unseen corner with the edge of her fork. “Somewhere one might actually sit and read without freezing through February. Not everything in a house must be arranged to impress.”

He smiled faintly. “No, I suppose not. Though it may disappoint my mother to hear it.”

“I’ve already disappointed her thoroughly this week,” Eleanor said with dry amusement. “A few chairs in the wrong place can hardly worsen my reputation.”

There was a lightness to her tone, but it was not shallow. She did not joke to deflect, but to endure.

“I meant what I said,” he offered. “About the room. It’s a good idea.”

“Do you?” she asked, her eyes sharp with curiosity. “Or are you merely being polite?”

“Politeness is for drawing rooms and duchesses,” he said, setting down his glass. “I’d not waste it here.”

She blinked, surprised into a soft, breathless laugh.

Nathaniel had never been adept at small talk. He found it exhausting, all the meaningless ornament of speech. But this … this was something else. Eleanor spoke without embellishment, her words carefully weighted but never heavy.

She steered the conversation not with force, but with grace. He found it akin to a current nudging a boat along, just enough to keep them moving forward.

“I had three brothers,” she said, cradling her glass in both hands now, not drinking, just holding.

“Still do, actually. Rowdy as dogs and twice as loud. Henry lives in Spain with his wife. He wears seriousness like a waistcoat and never takes it off. And Edward … he’s in India.

Writes home once every three months to tell us he’s alive and baking under the sun. ”

Nathaniel found himself smiling at the way she spoke of them. No theatrical sorrow, no self-pity. Just the bare, honest rendering of family in a way one might sketch them in charcoal rather than oils.

“You miss them,” he said, not a question.

“Of course,” she replied. “But I’ve never minded solitude. Only when it’s imposed upon me.”

He felt a strange ache at that. Not pity, but something like recognition.

“And you?” she asked, shifting the focus as easily as turning a page. “Have you always had Percival?”

He blinked, caught off-guard. Then, a chuckle escaped him. “I don’t believe anyone truly has Percival. He merely chooses to remain within reach.”

“That sounds about right,” she murmured, lips curving slightly.

Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “He was a gift, originally. From an uncle who believed I took myself far too seriously. The implication being that no man could retain an overinflated sense of dignity while being trailed by a snorting, flat-faced creature with a penchant for biscuits and velvet cushions.”

“And did it work?” she asked, looking rather amused. “Did he humble you?”

“He made me furious,” Nathaniel said wryly.

“For a fortnight, he refused to acknowledge my existence. Slept on a pillow in the library and glared at me every time I entered. Then one morning, I awoke to find him on my chest, snoring like an aged footman. I suppose that was his way of declaring a truce.”

“He likes me,” she said as if confessing a secret.

“I noticed,” Nathaniel replied, watching her. “Percival is a harsh judge of character. He despises my mother, you know.”

That earned him a genuine laugh. Quick, startled, and bright. He felt it like sunlight through a high widow, unexpected and warm.

Their eyes met again, and he suddenly became aware of how still the room had become. The clink of forks had long since ceased. Even the candlelight seemed to burn lower, casting softer shadows that seemed to blend one into the other. There was no one here but the two of them.

Strangely enough, it didn’t seem like a condition to be endured. It simply … was. And he was perfectly fine with this.