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Nathaniel stood with the other gentlemen near the hearth in the east parlour, with a glass of port in his hand, nodding at all the appropriate intervals.

Around him, the conversation flowed with practised ease. There was talk of land management, of tariffs, of the upcoming bill in the Lords.

A few of the older men spoke with a kind of dull certainty, punctuated now and again with low chuckles or derisive scoffs about politics or younger sons.

He could have quoted the conversation word for word, but he wasn’t listening. Not truly.

Instead, he was watching the doorway that led back into the ballroom.

Somewhere in that glittering throng of dancers was Eleanor. His Eleanor. And he wasn’t with her.

He took a slow sip of his drink. The taste was dull on his tongue. Everything done without her was dull.

Earlier that evening, just before the guests had begun to arrive, his mother had called him aside. She’d been perfectly composed, her voice low and clipped in that way she used when issuing commands disguised as suggestions.

“You must stay with your father and the gentlemen tonight. It is important,” she’d said. “Let your wife be admired. That is her role this evening. Yours is to demonstrate that you are a man of consequence. Your inheritance depends on it.”

He had tried to argue, but she’d smiled, placing a hand on his arm like a general on a soldier’s shoulder. “You are not simply a husband tonight, Nathaniel. You are the future duke.”

And so, here he was, the future duke, standing like a statue among men whose approval he was told he should crave. But all he could think about was the woman in the emerald gown he hadn’t yet danced with.

The music drifted from the ballroom. It was something light, charming. Laughter echoed faintly. He could picture her among them, smiling politely, perhaps even laughing. She had such a soft, genuine laugh. He hadn’t heard it nearly enough since their wedding.

And then he’d made the mistake of glancing across the room and catching a reflection in the tall mirror that hung beside the brandy cart.

Arthur Pembroke was leading Eleanor in a waltz.

The sight made something cold settle in his chest, followed by a slow burn that surprised him with its sharpness.

Of course, Arthur would be the one to offer her his hand. Arthur, whose arrival had stirred up every doubt Nathaniel had worked so hard to suppress.

Arthur, whose presence was both perfectly innocent and maddeningly inconvenient. Nathaniel had watched him charm his mother, amuse his father, and draw easy laughter from Eleanor.

And now, Arthur danced with her, while Nathaniel remained here, drinking port like some hollow heir waiting for his cue.

Nathaniel’s grip on the glass tightened as the music in the ballroom came to a soft, glittering end.

Applause broke like rainfall, muffled but unmistakable.

Although he couldn’t hear individual voices, he could imagine the scene: Eleanor smiling, Arthur bowing, the two of them exchanging some light jest, something from their shared past, something that he would never be able to laugh at.

Suddenly, a question formed, one made entirely of thorns: why Arthur?

There were dozens of gentlemen in attendance, all perfectly capable of leading a lady through a dance. But no. It had to be him. The one man Nathaniel couldn’t quite look in the eye without wondering what lay behind his smile.

Eleanor had said there was nothing to worry about. She had looked him in the eye that night in the library and said: “He is only a friend. Nothing more.”

Nathaniel believed her. He still did.

But belief didn’t dull the heat of jealousy twisting through his gut.

This … this was different. This was not nothing.

Not when she laughed so easily in Arthur’s presence, not when Arthur looked at her with that familiar ease, as though he had a rightful place beside her.

Not when they danced beneath chandeliers while Nathaniel stood sequestered with men who cared more about crop yields than his marriage.

He’d made a mistake. He had let himself care too much.

He had let her in, her laughter, her kindness, her quiet hope, and now it stung to see her so far from his reach. Just like it had for his uncle.

“Nathaniel,” his father’s voice cut in, sharp and expectant.

Nathaniel blinked, realizing too late that someone had asked a question. His father’s gaze narrowed in displeasure.

“I said,” his father repeated, “what do you make of Collingridge’s proposal for consolidating the tenant leases?”

There was a pause. Nathaniel cleared his throat and straightened, forcing his mind to pull back from the ballroom, from Eleanor, from Arthur’s hand on her waist.

“It has merit,” he replied, as his voice steadied with effort. “But I’d like to review the figures myself before forming a final opinion.”

It was a vague answer, to say the least, but it was respectable and safe. His father studied him with that cold, measured stare that could cut a man down to size without a single word.

Still, the conversation moved on, the other men picking up the thread without fuss. Nathaniel nodded when he had to. He spoke when prompted. But every time the low laughter of the ballroom floated through the door, his gaze flicked that way.

He had duties. He had expectations. But all he could think about was his wife, in emerald silk, dancing with another man.

***

It seemed that the fates themselves were set against her finding Nathaniel, for just as she and Arthur headed in the direction of the parlour, dinner was announced.

Several minutes later, Eleanor lowered herself into her chair with a polite smile aimed at no one in particular. Around them, footmen moved like shadows, placing plates before each guest with quiet precision.

She glanced down. Duck with rosemary glaze, accompanied by tender root vegetables and a swirl of something creamy and pale.

It looked exquisite. Her stomach, despite the nerves and tension of the evening, welcomed the idea of food.

She lifted her fork, carved off a small bite, and brought it to her lips.

She resisted the temptation to frown.

Salt? she thought.

Not just a pinch too much, but a flood, a brine-soaked wave that stung her tongue and set her throat prickling. Eleanor froze.

She could barely control herself as the corners of her mouth tightened in an effort to reach for her water glass. She swallowed quickly, trying to disguise her reaction.

It must have been that one bite.

She tried again, smaller this time.

Even worse.

She coughed softly into her napkin, blinking away the watering of her eyes. No one around her seemed to notice. The guests carried on with their conversation, dabbing lips and raising glasses in a genteel rhythm.

She looked to her left. Lord Greystone was speaking animatedly to someone across the table. To her right, Lady Norbury was already halfway through her meal, humming in appreciation.

Nathaniel sat two seats down, speaking with one of the older peers about land commissions. He was eating without any sign of discomfort. No raised brow. No pause.

Just mine, she thought, bewildered. What were the odds?

She sat still, schooling her features. She would not call attention to herself. Not tonight, not with the duchess watching her every move from the head of the table.

Her eyes flicked down the length of the room. Everything was elegant, from the polished mahogany to the artfully arranged flowers trailing across the table. She was supposed to be one of those flourishes. An ornament. A marchioness.

Instead, she felt like a cracked porcelain doll: graceful on the outside, splintering within.

She sipped more water, resisting the urge to push her plate away. It was probably nothing. A mistake in the kitchen. A slip of the hand. Still … why only her?

But her eyes shifted once again to Nathaniel. And this time, he glanced up too. Their gazes met for a flicker, no more than that, and she hoped that somehow, he would notice. That he would see her discomfort.

But the moment passed. The conversation around him resumed. And Eleanor folded her hands quietly in her lap, the duck untouched.

Her stomach turned, not from hunger, but from cold certainty. This wasn’t an error. This was not someone’s clumsy yet heavy hand with the salt. This was not a lapse in a busy kitchen.

It was deliberate. Precise. Personal.

It was a message dressed in rosemary glaze and civility.

Eleanor’s eyes trailed the curve of the long table, glinting with candlelight and cutlery. She followed the shimmer of crystal and silver towards the far end, where the duchess sat in pale lilac silk, framed like a portrait of grace and decorum.

The woman looked at her at that exact moment. Their gazes locked. Both of them appeared calm, composed … unblinking. And then, as though they had exchanged nothing at all, the duchess raised her glass and tilted it in a delicate, almost imperceptible toast.

Eleanor shivered, sensing something between defiance and dread. Her fingers tightened slightly around her napkin.

She looked down at the plate before her: pristine, barely touched. Not a soul remarked on it. If anyone noticed, they said nothing. The room continued around her as though all was well.

Polite laughter rose and fell like waves in a distant bay. Glasses clinked. Servants swept in and out with mechanical grace. Nathaniel did not look at her again.

And the duchess, resplendent in peacock blue, carried on her conversation with Lord Ashbridge as if her daughter-in-law were not quietly enduring some strange and private ritual of rejection two seats down.

Eleanor sat straight-backed and serene. That much at least, she could control. But inside, the unease festered.

They wanted her to feel this way. They wanted her isolated, watched, uncertain of every kindness.

But she would not break. She folded her hands in her lap and endured the rest of the meal in silence, with her eyes only occasionally drifting to the duchess’ placid face.

So be it.

She endured the rest of the dinner, breathing a sigh of relief as the music resumed and the plates were cleared. In the commotion that followed, she didn’t even realize what had happened.

Nathaniel was gone. He had disappeared without a word. There had been no glance across the table, no nod, no parting murmur of excuse. Just absence. And worst of all, in its place, there was only silence.

Arthur appeared at her side again, ever courteous, shielding her with pleasant conversation and warmth that felt safe only because it had always been so and she knew how to read his easy charm.

She laughed when expected, and responded with grace, but the entire ballroom felt like a tilted stage now. The weight of too many glances pressed upon her shoulders.

She could feel it. A married woman, and yet not once seen on the dance floor with her husband. A pair—her and Arthur—more visible than intended, and far more exposed than she would have dared.

The duchess did not correct it. She did not guide her towards Nathaniel or send for him. She, just like Nathaniel, had vanished into the background. And the story, the idea, had begun to take root as all stories do not with public declarations, but with cowardly murmurs.

When the guests began to depart, Eleanor curtsied with perfect poise.

She offered thanks and well-wishes and accepted compliments on the evening with a smile that showed no cracks.

Not until the last carriage pulled away, not until the doors closed, and the house fell into a hush, did she allow herself to truly feel.

She was exhausted. Her temples ached. Her jaw had become tight from holding an artificial smile for too long. And inside, something deep down twisted even deeper.

Yes, the dinner ball was a success. Everyone had said so. It had all gone exactly as planned … as the duchess had planned it.

As Eleanor stood in the marble foyer, surrounded by flowers and fading music, she understood now what the duchess had always known: it wasn’t about the dress, the diamonds, or the curtsies. Not really.

The house still belonged to someone else.

Every gesture Eleanor made had to be approved, aligned, and made correct. Every misstep, whether it was real or implied, would be remembered and counted against her.

She looked down at her gown, Loxley green, stitched by hand for this very night, and felt like an ornament on a shelf she was never invited to touch.

Nathaniel had not danced with her.

He had not returned.

They would never truly be a husband and wife.

The duchess had made her point.