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Nathaniel didn’t believe in ghosts. It was supposed to be just a game. But now, he wasn’t so certain.

Before either of them could speak or move, a small, solid shape hurtled out of the darkened hallway and collided squarely with Eleanor’s feet.

She let out a startled gasp as Percival, looking thoroughly miserable, whined and pawed at her skirts. His round sides heaved with exertion, and his little tail wagged uncertainly.

Nathaniel exhaled, as an unexpected laugh broke through the tension. Relief rushed through him, leaving him feeling foolish but oddly giddy. He knelt down, gathering the hapless pug into his arms.

“You ridiculous creature,” he muttered, pressing his forehead lightly to Percival’s. The dog responded with a frantic swipe of his tongue across Nathaniel’s jaw, his entire body wriggling with relief now that he had found them.

Eleanor chuckled as well, in that low, melodic sound that warmed the dim space more effectively than the lamp between them.

Nathaniel rose, cradling Percival like a small, wiggling prize. “You gave us quite a fright, you know,” he scolded with mock sternness, shaking his head. “I was prepared to fight off a ghost for her ladyship’s honour.”

Eleanor laughed again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, as her cheeks flushed. “And here I thought you were about to flee and leave me to my fate.”

Nathaniel grinned at her over Percival’s head, feeling absurdly that he might have done just about anything rather than leave her there.

“Never,” he said lightly. “Though next time, I’ll demand that you carry the pug.”

Percival barked only once, which signalled his agreement. Nathaniel shifted the pug to one arm, as the trio made their way back up the stairs. The heavy shadows of the cellar seemed less ominous now, chased away by laughter and the stubborn weight of a certain meddlesome pug.

“So,” Eleanor said softly, “your ghost is, in fact, nothing more than an intrepid explorer with very short legs.”

Nathaniel chuckled, adjusting his hold on the squirming Percival. “The most meddlesome of spirits,” he agreed. “And one with an alarming fondness for drama, it seems.”

Eleanor’s laughter was soft but real, curling between them like a ribbon. Nathaniel caught the sound and held onto it silently, not wanting it to vanish too soon.

They reached the staircase, and he offered her his free arm in a gallant ceremony. She hesitated a heartbeat, then accepted, her hand light on his sleeve. It seemed that they were finding their way to each other slowly, but surely. The thought oddly comforted him.

“Shall we escape before our specter realizes we left without properly exorcising him?” he asked, quirking a brow.

“I think he’s beyond saving,’ she teased, giving Percival a fond look as the pug nuzzled into Nathaniel’s coat.

Nathaniel grinned, feeling the strange lightness again, a crack in the walls he’d built carefully around himself. Together they climbed the worn stone steps, leaving the chilly cellar behind.

As it turned out, there were no ghosts. There was no haunting. There were only two people and a dog, emerging back into the warmth of the living world.

When they reached the door to her chamber, Eleanor turned towards him, her hand lingering on the latch.

“I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself this much,” she admitted tenderly. “Especially not prowling around a supposedly haunted wine cellar.”

Nathaniel’s mouth lifted in a quiet, honest smile. “Nor had I.”

They just stood there for a moment, as if neither was willing to leave too soon. Eleanor tilted her head slightly, studying him.

“What comes next, do you think?” she wondered, and he wasn’t certain if she was asking herself of him. “Silence or civility?”

He hesitated only a moment before answering, “Distance isn’t the same as unwillingness.”

She nodded slowly, considering his words. “True,” she murmured. “Distance can be useful. It lets one get a good grip on the situation.”

Nathaniel inclined his head in agreement, watching the delicate play of thought across her face.

“But,” she added, after a breath, “sometimes, closeness brings clarity, too.”

He felt something tighten and then ease inside him. He could see she wasn’t just making conversation. She was offering something, small and tentative, but real. Then, she glanced down, smoothing the fabric of her sleeve as if marshalling her courage, only to look back up at him.

“Perhaps,” she said lightly, “we might try again. A ride in the countryside?”

He couldn’t help smiling. “I should like that.”

Their gazes held for a moment longer, something new, something fragile knitting between them. Then Eleanor gave him a gentle nod, turned the latch, and slipped inside her chamber, leaving him standing there, with Percival grumbling softly in his arms.

***

“You will be formally presented to the county within a fortnight,” the duchess announced, her tone brooking no argument.

Eleanor looked up from her untouched breakfast, blinking against the cool certainty in the duchess’ voice. They were alone in the dining room, with the men both having retired to their respective studies to focus on work.

“A dinner and ball here at Loxley House,” the duchess continued, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin, though she had hardly eaten a bite. “The arrangements must be flawless, and I shall personally see to every detail.”

Eleanor set down her fork with care. “Of course. If there is anything I might assist with, Your Grace …” she ventured, her voice soft but steady.

The woman’s answering smile was tight and bloodless.

“Your role, my dear, is not to oversee, but to be seen.” She lifted her teacup delicately.

“As the Marchioness of Loxley, you will greet our guests, smile graciously, and do honour to your position. The particulars of planning are best left to those with experience.”

A flush warmed Eleanor’s cheeks, but she inclined her head obediently. “Of course.”

The duchess gave a small, approving nod as if Eleanor were a chair placed exactly where it ought to be. “The guest list,” she said crisply, “shall include only the most distinguished families. No merchants, no upstarts. I will see to that personally.”

Eleanor folded her hands in her lap, silent.

“The floral arrangements will be ordered from London. I will not have the local hothouse nonsense cluttering my tables,” the duchess went on, her voice sharper now, as if she anticipated arguments none dared make.

“And the menu,” she added, tapping one finger lightly against her teacup, “will be appropriately lavish. Turtle soup, venison, syllabub, and all the other necessary displays of good breeding. I shall speak to Mrs Cleary about it this afternoon.”

Eleanor managed a polite nod.

“As for music,” she said, lifting her chin, “I have already secured the Walden trio. They are tolerable and well-recommended across three counties. Anything less would be an embarrassment.”

Eleanor, feeling rather like one of the decorations herself, said quietly, “It all sounds very grand, Your Grace.”

“Grand,” the duchess echoed with the faintest hint of a smile. “That is precisely what it must be.”

Then, she set her teacup down with a sharp clink against the saucer.

“We were quite foolish,” she said, her mouth tightening, “to allow that pitiful little wedding ceremony. Barely thirty guests, no orchestra, no spectacle worth remembering.” She shook her head as if the memory physically pained her. “But Nathaniel was adamant. Insisted upon it.”

Across the table, Eleanor felt her throat tighten. She remembered that day, how stiff Nathaniel had been, how every moment had seemed weighted and heavy, not with joy, but with duty. She folded her hands more tightly in her lap, willing her face into a smooth, unreadable mask.

The duchess was barely paying attention to her and instead, went on, “Now, at least, we have the opportunity to rectify that mistake, to show the county and the world that Loxley House remains a place of dignity and grandeur. No one will remember that pathetic little ceremony after this ball. They will only remember what I choose to present to them.”

There was a satisfaction in her tone that made Eleanor’s skin prickle. She dipped her head slightly in acknowledgement, unsure whether to feel anger or pity.

“And you, my dear,” the duchess continued, fixing Eleanor with a bright, brittle smile, “will simply need to look the part. Speak when spoken to, and let the rest be managed by your betters.”

Eleanor swallowed her pride like bitter medicine and answered with the smallest, steadiest smile she could muster. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The duchess merely nodded after that long monologue, standing up, which was a signal that the conversation, if one could even call it that, had been brought to an end. A satisfactory one, for her, anyway.

As the door closed behind the duchess with a firm click, the entire dining room seemed to exhale with relief.

Eleanor remained seated, her hands resting lightly on the table and her back perfectly straight. Strangely enough, she was still playing the part, even for an empty room.

Only when the fading sound of the duchess’ heels disappeared down the corridor did Eleanor allow herself to move. She reached for her teacup with careful, measured motions, but her fingers trembled slightly as they touched the porcelain.

“Your betters,” Eleanor murmured under her breath, the words tasting sour on her tongue.

She set the cup down without drinking, the clink gentler than the duchess’, but somehow more final.

It should not have surprised her. She had known from the start that she was meant to be ornamental, a bauble polished to reflect Loxley’s faded grandeur.

And yet some foolish part of her, a part that still remembered a freer life, a girlhood filled with muddy boots and earnest dreams had hoped to carve out something real here. A place, a purpose.

Eleanor rose from her chair slowly, smoothing the skirts of her gown with a hand that no longer shook. Fine, then. She would wear the mask they demanded.

She would smile, curtsy, and glide through the duchess’ grand parade.

But deep within her, she vowed that she would find a way to remain herself. Even if it was only in secret.