Page 26

The scent of rosewater and milliner’s glue hung delicately in the air as Eleanor stood before the long gilt mirror, the weight of a feathered confection perched atop her head.

It was a modest bonnet, ivory silk with a twist of violet ribbon and a single plume.

Needless to say, not at all her usual style.

“Oh,” the Duchess of Wycombe said, with the bright coolness of someone unused to expressing enthusiasm, “that one would do very nicely on you. Don’t you think?”

Eleanor turned slightly, catching her own reflection as much as the duchess’ behind her.

“It is lovely,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

It was the third hat the duchess had chosen for her. And still, the weight in Eleanor’s chest had not eased.

The shop was quiet, and that silence consisted of murmured compliments and the soft rustle of fabric.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching on pins and silks in every hue, lighting them up like jewels.

Eleanor should have been delighted. Instead, she felt like a mannequin being dressed for presentation.

Still, she reminded herself: this is for Nathaniel. Every civility, every gesture of patience, she offered it in hope, however fragile, that it might lead her one step closer to her husband’s heart.

As the duchess turned away to speak to the milliner, Eleanor let her gaze drift to the sunlight outside the window. She could see the bustle of Bond Street, bright with movement. Her reflection wavered in the glass, half-obscured by the brim of her borrowed hat.

I can wait for him, she thought. Even if I must come to him through his mother, through silks and silences. I can wait.

The bells above the shop door gave a prim little chime as Eleanor stepped out into the pale London morning. A breeze chased a wisp of ribbon from her bonnet and brought with it the scent of horses and coal smoke.

They were not unpleasant, merely real. She lifted her gloved hand to anchor the ribbon and turned towards the duchess, who was likewise adjusting the folds of her pelisse with graceful efficiency.

“The modiste is just next door,” the duchess said, glancing towards the adjoining window with the elegant display of muslin gowns. “If you would care to look.”

Eleanor nodded. “Yes, thank you. I would.”

They had scarcely begun to move when the duchess paused. One gloved hand lifted, subtly but deliberately.

“Why—” she said as if only mildly surprised, “isn’t that your friend Mr Pembroke?”

Eleanor turned instinctively, following the line of the duchess’ gaze across Bond Street.

There, a few yards down and just emerging from a bookshop, was Arthur. His dark, well-cut coat with a sprig of something irreverently green at the lapel was unmistakable.

As soon as he caught sight of them, his face lit with boyish warmth. He raised his hand in greeting, then without hesitation began to cross the street, deftly avoiding a passing carriage with all the ease of someone born to the chaos of town.

“Oh,” Eleanor said, surprised but not displeased. “Yes. It’s him.”

Arthur reached them in moments, bowing with gallant flair.

“Your Grace,” he said first, offering the duchess a smile and a perfectly measured nod. “Lady El—I mean, Lady Loxley.”

“Mr Pembroke,” the duchess replied, with an expression bordering on amusement. “It seems Bond Street has become quite the social thoroughfare.”

“Indeed,” Arthur said cheerfully. “Though I daresay I would not have found it half so agreeable if not for the unexpected pleasure of encountering you both.”

His eyes found Eleanor’s, then, warm and familiar. “I hope you are both enjoying the morning?”

Eleanor smiled. “Very much. We were just on our way to the dressmaker.”

“Then I shall count myself twice blessed,” Arthur said, “to have met you between errands rather than interrupting them.”

The duchess’ expression remained inscrutable, though Eleanor caught a glint in her eye that might have been interest.

“How do you find London streets?” Eleanor enquired politely.

“Good enough,” he said. “Though I confess, the pace of London feels swifter than I remember it. I’ve only just come from the bookseller, hoping to find something tolerable in English after all the months of dusty Italian.”

“Did you succeed?” she asked, genuinely curious.

He patted the small parcel beneath his arm. “Barely. But it will do.”

The wind tugged again at the hem of her pelisse. Eleanor glanced at the duchess, expecting her to interrupt or excuse them, but she only stood still, watching the exchange with her usual composed quiet.

At last, Arthur said, “I would not keep you long. But perhaps … if it would not be too forward … might I call again in the coming days? I should like to continue catching up if Lord Fairfax permits.”

Eleanor’s breath caught for half a second: if Nathaniel permits. There was nothing unseemly in the question, but the mention of her husband’s permission brought with it the faintest of shadows.

“I’m sure that would be welcome,” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “We were all glad of your visit.”

That was when the duchess’ eyes widened and her gloved hand lifted to her brow. “Oh, goodness me. I believe I have left my reticule inside the hatter’s. How foolish of me.”

Eleanor turned back to her in surprise. “Shall I come with you?”

“No, no,” the duchess replied with a dismissive flick of her hand.

“It’s nothing. I shan’t be but a moment.

” She turned her gaze to Arthur with the composed poise of a woman well-accustomed to orchestrating rooms and silences.

“Mr Pembroke, perhaps you would be so good as to keep Lady Loxley company while I retrieve it?”

The ever-gallant Arthur bowed slightly. “It would be an honour.”

The duchess offered a tight nod and glided away, her figure soon disappearing behind the gleaming windows of the hat shop.

Eleanor remained where she stood, with the bustle of Bond Street flowing gently around them.

She became suddenly conscious of the slight chill in the air, the loose edge of ribbon brushing her neck, and the fact that she was now quite alone with Arthur Pembroke. On a public street, yes, and in full daylight, but alone all the same.

“I had not thought to see you again so soon,” Arthur said, breaking the brief silence. His voice was warm, companionable, threaded with amusement rather than suggestion.

Eleanor smiled, though she folded her gloved hands before her to steady herself. “Nor I. I suppose Bond Street delights in surprises.”

He glanced over his shoulder in the direction the duchess had gone. “She seems … intimidating.”

“She is,” Eleanor replied softly, allowing herself a small smile. “But she has made the effort today. And for that, I am grateful.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly. “She left you in my care as though we were childhood friends reunited under the best of circumstances.”

“Oh, Arthur, but we are childhood friends,” Eleanor replied, looking at him.

“Yes,” he said with a sudden, brighter grin, “but I do not believe your husband’s mother finds that particularly reassuring.”

Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek to stop a laugh. “Perhaps not.”

He studied her then, not rudely, but with the familiarity of someone who had known her once without guardrails. “You look well, Eleanor.”

She blinked, caught by the sudden turn in tone. “Thank you.”

“It does me good to see you happy,” he added. “Or at least … on your way there.”

There was no implication. Just the faintest trace of old fondness, of unspoken history that now sat quietly between them like a book long closed but still resting on the shelf.

“I am trying,” she said truthfully. “It is … not always simple.”

“Few worthy things are.”

She glanced down, adjusting the fingers of her glove. “You sound like someone who’s learned that the hard way.”

Arthur chuckled. “Italy will do that to a man. So will growing older. Or being around people who do not pretend at joy.”

Before she could answer, the duchess emerged again from the hatter’s with her usual composure intact, reticule neatly in hand, and not a hair out of place.

“Well,” she said as she approached, “disaster averted. I do despise leaving things behind.”

Arthur stepped back with an elegant bow. “Lady Loxley was the very image of decorum in your absence, I assure you.”

The duchess gave him a tight smile. “I never doubted it.” Then, she looked at Eleanor. “Shall we?”

Eleanor nodded and, with a quick glance back at Arthur, offered, “It was lovely to see you again.”

“And you,” he said, stepping aside. “Until next time.”

With that, the two women turned towards the dressmaker’s door, Eleanor’s skirts sweeping over the stone as the bell above the shop chimed once more.

***

Nathaniel dismounted just as the carriage wheels crunched over the gravel behind him.

The morning ride had done little to settle his thoughts, though the rhythm of the horse’s gait had, for a short while, provided a welcome distraction.

He handed the reins to the waiting groom, brushing a streak of dust from his sleeve, when he heard the familiar lilt of his mother’s voice behind him.

“Ah, there you are,” she said as she alighted, elegant as ever in dove-grey silk. “We were beginning to wonder if we might run into you on the road.”

Eleanor followed behind, carrying two wrapped parcels, and the smile she gave Nathaniel was soft, almost hopeful. He returned it with a polite nod.

“My ride took longer than expected,” he said, looking from his wife to his mother. “I trust your outing was enjoyable.”

“Oh, exceedingly,” his mother replied smoothly before Eleanor could speak. “We found a delightful hatter and then thought to visit Madame Dufort next door, but just as we stepped onto Bond Street, who should we come across but your Mr Pembroke.”

Nathaniel’s brows lifted a fraction. “Indeed.”

“Yes, quite by chance. He was perfectly charming. Naturally, I left them to speak for a few minutes, how could I not? They were thick as thieves, it seemed.”

“Your mother had forgotten her reticule,” Eleanor was quick to add.

Did she sound nervous or was he imagining it?

“Ah yes.” His mother nodded. “I did forget it.”

She smiled as though recounting some harmless jest, then looked at her son with just enough gravity to make her next words land like an arrow hidden in a bouquet.

“They are very much at ease, your wife and Mr Pembroke. Childhood bonds run deep, don’t they? One can hardly blame them for finding comfort in the familiar.”

There it was.

The words were soft, almost idle. But they struck something dormant in Nathaniel, akin to a sharp little twist just beneath the ribs. He said nothing at first. He merely reached for one of Eleanor’s parcels as she shifted them in her arms.

“I’m sure Mr Pembroke was glad to be among old friends,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

His mother inclined her head. “Oh, indeed. One could hardly begrudge him.”

She gave Eleanor a perfunctory smile and stepped towards the house with the grace of a woman who had said all she needed to. Eleanor lingered beside Nathaniel a moment longer, looking up at him.

“She was … unexpectedly kind today,” she said in a quiet voice, glancing after his mother.

Nathaniel didn’t answer. His mind’s eye lingered on the place where Arthur Pembroke had, earlier this week, stood smiling across the dinner table, effortlessly at home in the heart of a household not his own.

Childhood bonds.

Familiar comforts.

He realized then that he was gripping Eleanor’s parcel tighter than necessary and forced his hand to ease.

“I thought,” Eleanor said, turning to him, “if you weren’t otherwise engaged later this afternoon, perhaps we could read in the library … or even go for a short walk. The day is so fine. A picnic, maybe?”

Her tone was light, hopeful. And it was her eyes seeking his that made him pause.

There was a time when her gaze had unsettled him. Now, it did something worse. It made him long.

He swallowed heavily before replying, “I had a rather long ride this morning.” He was barely looking at her, his body half-turned towards the house. “And I have several matters waiting on my desk.”

“Oh,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Yes, of course.”

She masked the flicker of disappointment with a practised smile, one she had perhaps worn before, though he couldn’t say when. He hated how well she wore it.

“It was only a thought,” she added, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Another time, perhaps.”

Nathaniel nodded once, formal and faintly stiff. “Yes. Another time.”

Then, he held the door open for her. As she stepped inside, he followed, wondering if he should simply talk to her. But he then reminded himself that emotions only brought pain. He knew that from his uncle’s example.

Had he not loved a woman who scorned him and spent the rest of his life alone? It was better not to be scorned in the first place.

That was why Nathaniel decided to be quiet. Yet, he could not quite shake the echo of his mother’s voice.

Thick as thieves.