Page 25

The following morning, Eleanor turned the corner of the corridor, as her skirts whispered briskly against the polished marble floors.

The morning sun poured through the tall windows of Loxley House, casting long bars of gold upon the black-and-white marble, and she stepped through them as though they were rays meant only for her.

She was beaming.

There had been so many evenings spent with his family since her arrival here that passed in silence or tension or cool civility, meals in which words were measured out like coin, where warmth was as rare as affection. But last night had been different.

And she had seen Nathaniel smile.

Not one of those faint, dutiful curvatures of his mouth, the kind reserved for his mother or some elderly relative to whom one must be polite, but something near genuine.

His eyes had softened. He had even made a jest. And though she could not be entirely sure, she thought he had rather liked Arthur.

Or at least tolerated him, she amended wryly.

Still, it had been a lovely evening. Arthur had brought something into the house. Lightness, conversation, and the echo of laughter not strained or strategic. Even the duchess, so often poised and distant, had been warm.

And Nathaniel … Nathaniel had not retreated into his usual reserve quite so quickly. She had seen it, seen the flicker of it, a version of him that was not only tolerable but kind. And perhaps, if she were careful, she might coax more of that part of him into the light.

Today felt like it could be different.

Perhaps they might walk the south garden, for it was still early spring, and the tulips had begun to emerge in their tight, painted buds.

Or perhaps he would take her into the library again, and she could ask him about the strange atlas he had once been reading, the one in which half of South America was still labelled with fanciful kingdoms and creatures. She smiled to herself.

She had not yet seen him this morning. He was an early riser, always had been, and likely closeted away already in his study or gone out riding.

But she meant to find him. Not intrusively. No, just enough to be near. Just enough to see if yesterday’s ease might continue into the light of day.

She passed a footman in the corridor and offered a warm, absent smile. “Has Lord Fairfax breakfasted yet?”

“I believe his lordship was seen heading towards the library, My Lady.”

“Thank you.” She nodded, not quite able to suppress the delighted flicker in her chest.

Her pace quickened as she approached the doors at the far end of the corridor. The library was cool in the mornings, shaded from the eastern light by thick velvet drapes and shelves that ran nearly to the ceiling.

She imagined him there now, seated at his desk or perhaps standing by the hearth with a cup of coffee in hand and his brows furrowed as he read something dense and serious.

Just as Eleanor lifted her hand to knock, the sound of footsteps, measured and unmistakably feminine, rose behind her.

She turned, only to find the Duchess of Wycombe standing several paces away, her bearing as impeccable as always, dressed in dove-grey silk with a matching pelisse lined in sable.

Eleanor swept into a quick curtsy. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

The duchess inclined her head with cool civility. “Lady Loxley.” A pause. “You are up early.”

Eleanor offered a tentative smile. “It is such a fine morning. I thought perhaps I might find Lord Fairfax before—”

The duchess, without waiting for her to finish, stepped forward, her voice quiet but resolute. “As it happens, I was hoping to speak with you.”

Eleanor’s hands twitched against her skirts. “Oh?”

“I am planning to go into town this morning. Some trifling errands, ribbons, gloves, and the like. I should be obliged if you would accompany me.”

For the briefest moment, Eleanor simply blinked.

Had she heard her correctly?

The Duchess of Wycombe, who had scarcely invited her for tea let alone conversation since the wedding, was now suggesting she join her for a morning of shopping?

“I …” she began, floundering slightly. “That is very kind, Your Grace. I only wondered—”

The duchess lifted a hand, not unkindly, but with the efficiency of one accustomed to curtailing delays. “I shall confess I have not made your time here … overly pleasant.”

That was, Eleanor thought with a jolt, the closest thing to an apology she had ever heard from the woman.

The duchess went on, her tone untouched by embarrassment. “Nevertheless, the least we might do is attempt to become better acquainted. It is, after all, an arrangement neither of us chose. But one we might yet improve.”

Eleanor looked at her, genuinely unsure whether this was kindness, strategy, or something in between.

“I … I would be happy to join you,” she said at last, though the words emerged more slowly than she intended.

The duchess studied her for a heartbeat. “I understand your hesitation,” she said evenly. “But I believe Nathaniel would like us to get along. Don’t you?”

There it was.

Eleanor’s chin lifted. Yes, she thought. He would. He may never say so, but he would.

She smiled, a little more steadily. “Yes, Your Grace. I should be glad to come.”

“Splendid.” The duchess gave a small nod of approval, as though concluding some contract. “We shall depart in half an hour. I shall meet you in the entrance hall.”

With that, she turned and walked away without further ceremony. Eleanor stood a moment longer, still absorbing the encounter. Then, as if stirred by a gentle pull, she glanced back at the library door.

She had so hoped for a quiet morning with Nathaniel. A real one. One without interruptions or obligations or veiled tension.

But perhaps this, too, was worth something.

She took a breath, turned, and made her way to her chamber to dress.

***

Nathaniel was standing by the hearth in his study, coffee in hand, when the door opened without announcement, which was a liberty permitted to precisely one man.

“Already awake?” came Marsden’s voice, dry and faintly amused. “I had thought you kept slothful hours now that you’ve ascended to domestic respectability.”

Nathaniel didn’t look up. “I’ve been awake since six.”

“Of course you have.” Marsden strolled in, shaking the rain from his coat and dropping into the leather armchair with the indolent ease of someone entirely at home. “What a pity. I had hoped matrimony might reform you into something tolerable.”

Nathaniel allowed himself the faintest smile. “You’re hardly one to speak of tolerable behaviour.”

Marsden waved the jab away. “I’m delightful. Everyone says so. But enough about my sterling character. I came for a report. How did last night’s grand supper fare? Was Mr Pembroke suitably radiant? Did the ladies swoon and the servants weep for joy?”

Nathaniel lifted a brow. “It was … pleasant.”

Marsden sat up, mock-aghast. “Good God. Pleasant? That’s nearly a compliment.”

Nathaniel’s lips curved just slightly as he stepped to the sideboard and poured Marsden a cup of coffee without asking. “Yes, it was quite a feast.”

“I had gathered. Was he everything you feared?”

“No,” Nathaniel admitted, passing him the cup. “Worse. He was charming. Polite. Generous with stories. Endlessly agreeable.”

Marsden sipped. “So, a complete monster.”

Nathaniel leaned one shoulder against the mantle. “I kept waiting for some crack in the facade, but no. He was perfectly civil. Engaged everyone in conversation. Even Father didn’t hate him. My mother laughed at something he said.”

Marsden gave a dramatic shudder. “That is a disturbing image.”

Nathaniel stared into his cup. “I want very badly to find something wrong with him.”

“And you can’t.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I can’t.”

Marsden tilted his head. “Then perhaps there’s nothing wrong to find.”

Nathaniel didn’t answer at once. He traced the rim of his cup with one finger, his gaze distant and lost.

Marsden observed him for a beat, then said lightly, “You’re in love, Fairfax. It makes you see everyone as a threat. Even me, I daresay.”

Nathaniel scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Please. You’ve been mistrusting me since we were twelve and I borrowed your Latin primer without asking.”

Nathaniel chuckled, shaking his head. “You never returned it.”

“And you never needed it.” Marsden leaned back, his tone softening. “You’re not yourself when she’s involved, you know. Not entirely. Which is no bad thing.”

Nathaniel glanced at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Marsden said, “that I’ve never seen you quite so … engaged. Present. On edge, perhaps, but not cold. She draws something out of you. And that terrifies you.”

Nathaniel looked down into his drink. “She matters.”

There was a silence.

Marsden didn’t mock that. He didn’t smile.

“I know,” he said.

Nathaniel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why is it always so much easier to speak to you?”

“She’s not asking you to be easy,” Marsden replied. “She’s asking you to be real.”

Nathaniel sighed. Seeking diversion, Nathaniel came up with a question. “And what of your own love life, Marsden? Since you’re so inclined to meddle in mine. Or do you prefer to observe the battlefield rather than step foot on it?”

Marsden glanced over his shoulder, suffocating a smile. “Ah, no, you see, my talents are entirely vicarious. I’m a strategist, not a soldier.”

Nathaniel snorted. “Coward.”

“Undoubtedly,” Marsden agreed. “But I like to think of it as self-preservation.”

He turned then, hands clasped behind his back, expression playfully serious. “I am an expert in the romantic entanglements of other people, my dear Fairfax. Myself? Hopeless. A walking cautionary tale.”

Nathaniel shook his head, allowing a rare, quiet chuckle to escape. “You? Hopeless?”

“Completely. Give me a baroness in distress, and I’ll tell you precisely whom she ought to marry. But ask me to speak with one for more than ten minutes without offending her, and the entire thing collapses.”

“That, I believe.”

Marsden raised his brows. “I’m wounded.”

“Not wounded enough,” Nathaniel said, a trace of warmth lingering in his voice, despite the dry tone.

A pause settled between them, one that was comfortable, companionable.

Then Marsden added, “Love’s a dangerous thing, Nathaniel. You’re not wrong about that. It has a way of unsettling even the most orderly of minds.”

Nathaniel said nothing.

Marsden continued, more gently now, “But it isn’t war. You don’t always have to defend. Or retreat.”

Nathaniel looked away, the firelight catching the line of his jaw. “I was not raised to believe in affection for its own sake.”

“No,” Marsden said softly. “You were raised to believe it had to be earned.”

Nathaniel stared into the grate. “And withheld, if not.”

Marsden nodded but did not push further.

Instead, he walked back towards the hearth, stood beside his friend, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She likes you, you know.”

Nathaniel’s brow furrowed faintly. “She’s my wife.”

Marsden gave him a long look. “That’s not what I meant. And you know it.”

A silence fell again, not as easy this time.

Nathaniel spoke at last, low and almost reluctant. “I care for her more than I ought to. More than is … safe.”

Marsden gave a short laugh. “There it is. The great Fairfax confession. And tell me, has caring for her endangered your honour, your name, your ancestral estate?”

Nathaniel’s jaw tensed. “Don’t be glib.”

“I never am,” Marsden said, with exaggerated gravity. Then, more seriously, “You love her. And you’re terrified it will make you weak.”

Nathaniel looked down at the coffee in his hands. It had gone cold. “Isn’t that what it does?”

Marsden tilted his head. “No. But it does make you visible. Which, for men like us, is rather the same thing.”

The silence stretched again.

Then Nathaniel said, “You should write a book. The Misguided Philosopher’s Guide to Affairs of the Heart.”

Marsden grinned. “If I did, you’d be the cautionary tale in chapter one.”

Nathaniel’s lips lifted into a faint, reluctant smile.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t,” Marsden said, sipping his coffee. “But I suppose for you, it’ll have to do.”