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Nathaniel’s instincts told him what his reasoning already suspected: nothing good ever came from a late summons to his father’s study.

He rapped his knuckles against the heavy, oak door just once.

“Enter,” came the deep, commanding voice.

Pushing the door open, Nathaniel stepped inside. The study was dimly lit, the curtains half-drawn against the twilight. Behind the massive desk, the duke sat like some immovable relic, with papers scattered before him and a decanter of brandy within easy reach.

Nathaniel bowed slightly, which was a token gesture more of habit than of respect.

“You wished to see me, Father?”

The duke didn’t look up immediately, choosing instead to finish annotating a letter with a sharp, impatient scratch of his pen. Only then did he raise his piercing gaze, one thick brow arching.

“I hear,” he began, voice slow and heavy with disapproval, “that you have taken to arranging picnics and indulging your wife’s whims about the house.”

Nathaniel felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. So. It was exactly as he thought.

“My wife,” he replied evenly, “has made no unreasonable demands.”

His father’s mouth thinned. “I told you to marry her, Nathaniel. I did not tell you to become her lapdog.”

Nathaniel’s hands flexed at his sides. Normally, he would have bitten down on his irritation. Normally, he would have let the comment pass in silence. Tonight, though, he could not.

“I married her, as you commanded,” he said, his voice calm but clipped. “And I intend to treat her with the respect due to any human being.”

The duke’s face darkened, the veins at his temples rising slightly.

“Respect,” he repeated with a scoff. “Women must be managed, not indulged. Give them an inch and they will demand the entire estate. It is a man’s duty to instruct them of their place.”

Nathaniel stared at him, as cold, brittle anger rose in his chest.

He thought of Eleanor that afternoon, her laughter spilling into the warm air, her brave attempts to carve out a place for herself within the walls of a house that resented her existence and even more, the fact that they needed her there. And for once, Nathaniel did not care to keep the peace.

“I have no wish to instruct my wife,” he said flatly. “She needs no master.”

The duke leaned back in his chair, studying his son as one might a horse that had just bucked unexpectedly. Displeasure radiated from him in waves.

“You would do well to remember,” he said after a moment, “that your duty is to this family. Sentiment has no place in it.”

Nathaniel met his father’s gaze without flinching.

“I remember my duty,” he said quietly. “But I will not be cruel in the name of tradition.”

The silence that followed was thick, crackling. Nathaniel did not wait to be dismissed. He bowed again, even more stiffly than before, and turned on his heel. His hand was already on the doorknob when his father’s voice called him back.

“Tell me, son,” his father pointed out, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair, “would a master be cruel in teaching a horse to behave? Or a hound?”

Nathaniel stiffened, his back still turned. He closed his eyes briefly, biting down the retort that surged to his tongue. Eleanor is not an animal. She was not some creature to be broken to the bit and bridle.

But he said nothing.

The silence stretched thick across the room. At last, the duke gave a sharp, satisfied breath, mistaking Nathaniel’s stillness for acquiescence.

“Exactly,” he said, voice heavy with finality. “Firmness is not cruelty. It is duty.”

Nathaniel finally turned, while his mind churned with resentment he did not dare show.

His father’s eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, so proud, so unyielding, so utterly convinced of his own righteousness. Then, more heavily, his father shifted in his seat, reaching for the glass of brandy and swirling it idly.

“I will not be here forever,” he said, the words falling like stones between them. “This body is wearing out. You can see it for yourself.”

Nathaniel said nothing. He had seen the stiffness of his father’s movements, the cough he tried to hide, and the increasing hours spent sitting instead of riding or hunting. It was a slow decline, and yet the man clung to his power with clawed hands.

“When I am gone,” his father continued, in a rougher voice now, “my name must still command respect. Loxley House must stand unmarred. That is your duty. Your legacy.” He fixed Nathaniel with a hard stare. “I expect you to remember that. Always.”

Nathaniel inclined his head slightly, a movement that was so small that it was almost imperceptible.

“Yes, Father,” he finally replied, but the words felt hollow in his mouth.

As always, he was dismissed with a curt wave of the hand. Nathaniel turned and left, walking down the long, heavy corridor at a pace that grew quicker with each step, as though distance alone could scrub his father’s words from his skin.

The air outside the study felt cooler somehow, but the tightness in Nathaniel’s chest did not ease. Duty. Legacy. Respect. They had been drilled into him for so long that he could almost believe they were all that mattered.

Almost.

But Eleanor’s face, lit by laughter in the sunlight, kept intruding on that grim, stifling picture.

***

The library had become her quiet rebellion.

Late afternoon light spilled through the high windows, painting the worn rugs and deep mahogany shelves in gold and shadow.

Eleanor moved between the aisles with no real purpose but presence.

She was content merely breathing in the dusty scent of old leather and paper, letting it soothe the places inside her that felt bruised from too many strained smiles.

She had spent so many days being watched, weighed, and found wanting. Here, at least, the books asked nothing of her. They simply were.

Her fingertips grazed a familiar title, Milton’s Paradise Lost, when the atmosphere shifted. She paused, and the fine hairs along her arms rose with the strange certainty that she was no longer alone.

Turning slowly, Eleanor caught sight of Nathaniel standing in the doorway.

He was not dressed for society. There was no cravat, no heavy coat, only an open-collared shirt and dark trousers.

Casual, almost careless, but he held a book loosely in one hand as if it had been an excuse to come.

His posture was easy, one shoulder braced against the frame.

Yet he did not move forward. He merely watched her.

For a long, suspended moment, neither spoke.

Eleanor, heart suddenly unsteady, could not look away. She thought, absurdly, that he looked more real like this: less the careful heir, more the man who had laughed, startled and genuine, when Percival had stolen his cake.

Her hands fluttered once at her sides, unsure what to do.

Finally, she managed a question. “Did you come to find a book?”

Nathaniel glanced down at the volume in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there. A faint, almost rueful smile touched his mouth. “I think so.”

He stepped in, and the moment he did so, Percival rushed past his master’s feet without hesitation.

The pug crossed the wide expanse of rug with a little snort and settled heavily at Eleanor’s feet, leaning against her hem as if she belonged to him. Eleanor’s mouth twitched with suppressed amusement, but she said nothing, glancing briefly up at Nathaniel.

If he minded, he gave no sign. His gaze skimmed the shelves instead, his fingers trailing over worn leather spines with an ease that surprised her.

This was not the stiff heir to Loxley House; this was a man who had wandered these rows often enough to know their scent, their weight, their silence.

Without speaking, they moved to the modest seating arrangement by the hearth.

Eleanor lowered herself onto the settee; Nathaniel chose the armchair opposite.

Between them, the small side table held a lamp that bathed the corner in a soft, forgiving light.

A vase of roses, their petals beginning to droop, stood as a quiet witness.

A book lay untouched beside it, but neither reached for it.

At first, their conversation skimmed lightly across the surface.

“I wonder,” Eleanor said, finally trailing a finger along the spine of a weathered volume, “how many of these have actually been read.”

Nathaniel leaned against the arm of his chair. “If I had to guess,” he said, “less than half. Some families prefer the appearance of learning to the thing itself.”

Eleanor smiled, glancing down at Percival sprawled at her feet. “At least your dog is discerning. He chooses comfort over appearances.”

“The little Brutus,” Nathaniel muttered, though there was no real heat in it. “He used to be loyal.”

“Clearly, he has good instincts,” Eleanor teased, earning a quiet huff of amusement from him.

Nathaniel shifted slightly in his chair, his fingers absently tracing the worn leather arm.

“The rows closest to the window are histories. I can vouch for those having been read and reread. I always liked history best. Not the grand tales. The smaller ones. Forgotten kings. Minor rebellions. The pieces that didn’t make it into the pageantry. ”

Eleanor tilted her head, curious. “Because they’re truer?”

He considered this, his gaze distant. “Because they’re human. Flawed, inconsequential, stubborn. Like the rest of us.”

She smiled faintly, moved by the honesty in his voice. “You make history sound almost … tender.”

Nathaniel gave a soft, almost rueful chuckle. “It isn’t. But sometimes it’s close enough to understand.”

“I always thought,” Eleanor said quietly, “that books were the only places one could truly know someone. The author, I mean. The rest of life requires so many masks.”

Nathaniel’s gaze caught hers across the soft glow of the lamplight. “Not everyone wears them easily.”

She flushed a little at the gentle weight of his words but did not look away. Percival stirred at her feet with a soft snuffle, breaking the spell of the moment just enough. Eleanor smiled and bent to stroke the little pug’s head, feeling her heart loosen, just slightly, in her chest.

“It’s a curious thing,” she said, watching the lamplight flicker across the wilting roses. “How easily one can slip into a part without even realizing. Wear a smile, say the right words, and move through the days as if they were already decided for you.”

Nathaniel didn’t interrupt.

“I wonder sometimes,” Eleanor went on, a faint crease between her brows, “if I was chosen only to fill a space. A name to be added to a ledger, an heir to be ensured. But no one thought to ask what I might become once I was here. What I might wish for myself.”

The words surprised even her as they left her mouth. She had not intended to be so candid. Yet the quiet between them was not cold. It was listening, holding space for her in a way few others had ever done. She surprised herself by going further still.

“I had a friend,” she said, her voice quiet but sure, “who reminded me when I was younger, that I ought to have wishes and dreams of my own.” She smiled faintly.

“But I know now that reality is … different. Especially for a woman. I wonder sometimes if it is even possible to be anything more than a piece of someone else’s plan. ”

Across from her, Nathaniel tilted his head slightly, watching her with that patient, unflinching gaze. “Was it Charlotte who gave you such good advice?” he asked politely.

A soft laugh escaped Eleanor, and she shook her head, waving a hand dismissively.

“No, not Charlotte. It was Arthur. Just an old friend from childhood,” she added quickly, seeing the slight lift of Nathaniel’s brow.

“I haven’t seen him in ages. But he—” she shrugged lightly, and a fondness threaded through her words, “—like Charlotte, always encouraged me to believe I could do something more.”

Nathaniel was silent for a moment, absorbing this. His thumb idly brushed the arm of his chair. Then he voiced his thoughts. “It is possible, Eleanor. To be more than someone else’s plan.” He paused for a moment, then added importantly, “But one has to be stubborn enough to insist on it.”

She chuckled sweetly, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle it, but the brightness lingered in the depth of her eyes.

“I think I could probably manage that.”

Nathaniel’s smile assured her that he was absolutely in agreement with her.