Page 28

That evening, sleep would not grace Nathaniel with its blissful presence. He went in search of solace in the library, which was dark save for the now flickering lamplight near his armchair.

He deeply inhaled the scent of paper and smoke curling through the room like a familiar ghost. After a few minutes of indecision, he finally sat down with a book open on his lap, though he had not turned a page in over fifteen minutes. His mind kept wandering.

Then suddenly, he caught the sound of footsteps.

He looked up just as the door creaked open. Eleanor stood in the threshold wrapped in a shawl, and the faint glow of the corridor behind her turned her into a silhouette.

She smiled upon seeing him. “I couldn’t sleep,” she offered apologetically, in a voice a little more than a breath.

He closed the book gently, placing it on the side table. “Nor I.”

There was a pause, those suspended seconds where so much might be said, and yet neither seemed to know how to begin.

She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a soft click. For a moment, she looked about the room as if unsure of where to place herself, then continued slowly towards the hearth, standing before it though the fire had long since gone cold.

He watched her from his chair. How small she looked wrapped in her shawl, but composed still.

It was something he had noticed in her from the first moment he laid eyes on her: she was graceful even in vulnerability.

Silence pressed between them again, broken only by the wind rattling faintly at the windows.

Then, at last, her voice rose, clear and quiet.

“I would never disrespect you, Nathaniel,” she said. “I am your wife. And I would never meet with Arthur, or anyone, privately, without you knowing. That is not the sort of woman I am.”

He rose, slowly. His heart was already pounding, but his face did not betray it.

“I do not believe you would,” he replied after a moment. “It is not you I mistrust. It is him.”

She turned towards him then, and their eyes met. Something within her face softened.

“He is only a friend,” she said. “He always has been. Nothing more.”

Nathaniel said nothing at first. He crossed to the window, his hand brushing aside the heavy curtain so he could look out into the dark. Trees swayed in the wind; those silent, unknowable things.

“You must think me a jealous fool,” he said finally.

“I think you are a man who has been taught not to trust,” she answered gently.

Her words struck deep. Not sharply, but in a way that made him ache.

He turned back to her.

“I’ve spent my life being warned against attachment. Against affection. I’ve seen what it costs a man to feel too deeply, to want too much.”

“And yet you do feel,” she said, barely above a whisper.

He met her gaze again. Her eyes, they were so honest, so open, and it nearly undid him.

“I do,” he said.

There was silence. Not uncomfortable now, but close. Intimate.

“I know we are not—” she began but faltered. “I only mean to say … I had hoped we were starting to understand one another.”

His throat tightened. “We are.”

She exhaled, as though she had been holding her breath. Then, softly, she nodded.

“I’m glad.”

Nathaniel crossed the room slowly. He stopped just before her, and for one suspended moment, they simply looked at each other; two people trying to bridge the space built not by fault, but by fear.

He reached for her hand, fingers brushing hers before folding gently around them.

“You were right earlier,” he said quietly. “He has a way of charming everyone. I don’t blame you for being fond of him. But I should like to earn your fondness, too. Not out of duty … but out of merit.”

Her eyes filled, but she did not look away.

“You already have.”

He couldn’t speak. He could only nod, the moment too fragile for anything more.

Eleanor smiled up at him, her expression small but luminous, as though something fragile within her had finally found the courage to rise to the surface.

“I’m looking forward to the ball tomorrow evening,” she said, her voice touched with soft anticipation. “To be introduced as your wife … to the county. It feels rather significant, doesn’t it?”

Nathaniel blinked, caught off guard by how the simple sentiment struck him.

He had not thought of the event in such terms. He had simply regarded it with the same stoic obligation with which he approached most public affairs.

But now, seeing her eyes alight with quiet pride, he felt a warmth bloom in the hollow of his chest.

“I’m glad,” he replied after a moment. “That it pleases you.”

She tilted her head slightly. “It does. I want to stand beside you—proudly.”

His chest tightened again, but this time, not in fear. In wonder.

“You shall,” he said. Then, as though something in him gave way, he added, “And I shall be proud to have you beside me.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “That means more than you know.”

He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to her knuckles. It was old-fashioned, perhaps. But it was all he could manage without frightening himself.

A minute later, they parted gently, without ceremony. She left the library first, her shawl trailing behind her like a whisper, and he watched the door close softly in her wake.

Alone again, Nathaniel stood for a long while without moving, the weight of the evening settling into something quieter than turmoil, something nearly peaceful.

***

The house was already humming with a quiet urgency when Eleanor descended the staircase the following morning.

Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, catching the gleam of polished silver trays being carried to and fro by liveried servants, and above it all stood the duchess, issuing orders with the precision of a military general.

Eleanor hesitated at the foot of the staircase before approaching. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said with a hopeful smile. “I wondered if there’s anything I might do to help.”

The duchess turned to her slowly, as though surprised by the offer.

“Oh, no, absolutely no need for that,” she said crisply. “You are to smile and look lovely this evening. That is your only task. Leave the rest to those of us who know what we’re doing.”

Eleanor’s smile faltered a little, but she curtsied politely, unwilling to press. “Of course,” she murmured, beginning to step back.

But the duchess called her again. “Lady Loxley? One more thing.”

Eleanor turned.

“There is a certain … order … to these affairs. Tonight’s dinner and ball will not be some countryside assembly. You will be formally presented to the county as the Marchioness of Loxley. There will be eyes on you. Expectations. You must follow our lead.”

“I understand,” Eleanor said, lifting her chin slightly. “I will.”

The duchess surveyed her a moment longer, then gave a faint nod of approval. “Good. One must know one’s place if one is to keep it.”

It took effort, but Eleanor held her composure. Her hands remained neatly clasped in front of her skirts, though she felt the stir of something resentful under her ribs.

As she turned once more to leave, the duchess added, in an almost offhand tone, “Nathaniel will likely be much occupied this evening with the gentlemen, discussing the business of the estate, and the families. It’s best you don’t expect him at your side the entire time.”

Eleanor paused. The words struck her with quiet precision. Not cruel, no. Just … cold. After all, wasn’t she supposed to be introduced as his wife to everyone? And didn’t that usually entail both the husband and the wife being present together?

Still, she nodded. “Of course.”

Her throat tightened as she walked away. Her pace was calm, but inside, a small ache had bloomed, one she couldn’t quite smooth away with reason. She had hoped, perhaps naively, that this night might draw them closer, even if only by a little.

A dance. A shared glance. A stolen moment behind the gilded edges of formality.

Still, she would smile. She would wear the dress carefully chosen for her, step into the ballroom with grace, and play her part to perfection. And maybe, just maybe, Nathaniel would see her there and choose to come to her.

Even if only for a moment.