Page 6

“To unity between old houses and strengthening of those same, old bloodlines!” Eleanor’s father raised a toast.

Her hand lifted her glass with practiced elegance. Everything about her movements was deliberate and effortless, but it was at the same time, perfectly false. Just like her smile.

The Duke of Wycombe nodded once in what appeared to be regal boredom. Eleanor shared the sentiment. Lady Honoria did not raise her glass so much as she allowed it to hover mid-air like a command reluctantly obeyed.

Nathaniel, across the table, lifted his glass out of what appeared to be sheer obligation. His expression was strangely, coolly unreadable.

Eleanor mirrored him exactly, with her chin tilted, wrist graceful, and eyes detached, but with a glint of disdain that no amount of polish could entirely smooth over. If he noticed it, he gave no sign.

By the time dessert was served, some elaborate French confection in spun sugar that looked far too pretty to eat, their parents were thoroughly engrossed in talk of dowries and spring settlements. That is, it was her father who led the main word, with others mostly nodding.

Eleanor leaned forward, just enough that her voice could be heard over the low murmur of the table.

“Tell me, My Lord,” she said, her tone honeyed with just enough bite to suggest it was not meant kindly, “do you plan to carry on through our entire acquaintance with clipped formality and cold remarks?”

Nathaniel, who was caught in the act of breaking the shell of his tart with the edge of a spoon, glanced up. His eyes, those cool, unreadable storm cloud eyes, met hers over the pale flicker of candlelight.

“That,” he said mildly, “rather depends on whether you mean to keep baiting me.”

Eleanor arched a brow. “Perhaps. I’ve always liked fishing.”

“Even when the fish refuses to bite?”

“Oh, I don’t mind a challenge.”

He studied her for a moment. It was too long to be polite, but not quite long enough to be improper.

Then he said, voice quiet but laced with something unmistakably amused, “I suspect you’ll be full of surprises, Lady Eleanor.”

She smiled. Barely.

“Try to keep up, Lord Fairfax.”

Their words had the sheen of civility, but the edges were keen. Every sentence a parry, every glance a feint. Yet beneath it, beneath the carefully controlled tones and porcelain politeness, was a current neither of them could quite deny.

It was pure enjoyment.

Oh, she was most certainly enjoying this. The way he didn’t flinch. The way he gave as good as he got. The way he looked at her not with indulgence or condescension, but with calculation. Curiosity.

Desire, perhaps? Though that would never be spoken aloud.

The footman behind her twitched, clearly pretending not to listen. Charlotte was pretending not to smirk. Their mothers were pretending not to fume. Eleanor sipped her wine, the sweetness curling on her tongue.

She didn’t want this engagement. She hadn’t asked for it. But if she was to be shackled to a man, she would not go quietly and she was determined to show it both during dinner as well as after it.

That was when the gentlemen lingered in the dining room, brandy and cigars summoned like clockwork. The ladies rose in a rustle of silk and manners, moving towards the drawing room in a graceful procession of polite withdrawal.

Nathaniel stepped forward as Eleanor approached, extending one arm in the expected gesture of gallantry.

She stopped just short of him.

“There’s no point in pretending civility, My Lord,” she said, low enough that only he could hear, her voice still velveted from wine but firm as stone.

He did not lower his arm immediately, nor did his expression shift. “I agree. But let’s also spare ourselves any dramatics.”

A small, humourless smile tugged at her lips. “A lifetime of them awaits, no doubt.”

She swept past his offered hand without touching it, but she did not leave him behind. They walked side by side instead, equal in height, pride, and silence.

Their footsteps echoed faintly in the wide corridor, cushioned by the thick Aubusson rug and muffled by the weight of things unsaid.

Eleanor kept her gaze ahead, with her chin high and her hands folded neatly in front of her.

He did not look at her, but she was certain that he was aware of every step she took, every sharp breath, every inch of space between them. It was all charged and crackling.

The other women drifted ahead in a sea of pastel silks and murmured conversation. Eleanor slowed as they reached the threshold to the drawing room, where music and candles and the cloying scent of peonies awaited.

She paused. Nathaniel stopped too, obviously surprised. She turned, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder.

“You could’ve told me who you were,” she said quietly. “In the park.”

Then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the gold-lit drawing room before he could come up with a reply.

***

Nathaniel stepped back into the dining room as the warm scent of tobacco and oak-panelled legacy wrapped around him like a too-heavy coat. He relished a moment of peace, without Eleanor’s jabs.

His father stood at the hearth, with a brandy glass in one hand, while Lord Ravensdale already resumed the cushioned chair he’d claimed earlier, as a cigar smouldered lazily between his thick fingers.

The room hummed with quiet male satisfaction, of meals completed, cigars lit, and alliances settled.

Nathaniel took the brandy offered to him by a waiting footman and crossed the room with measured calm, though his thoughts were still in the corridor, still caught on the words Eleanor had left him with.

You could’ve told me who you were.

He hadn’t. And he hadn’t known why, at the time. But now, he did.

Lord Ravensdale exhaled a plume of smoke and leaned back with the air of a man content with his own wisdom.

“My Eleanor, well … she’s spirited, as you’ve seen.

” He gave a short, sheepish laugh, as though apologizing for a poorly trained dog.

“Her mother and I did our best. Tutors, governesses, the whole regimen. But she’s always had a mind of her own, the girl. Stubborn as a mule.”

Nathaniel said nothing. He took a sip of brandy instead, letting the heat burn its way down his throat.

Ravensdale pressed on. “Still, I imagine you’ll know how to manage her. Strong hand, steady example. You seem the sort. Fairfax men always were.”

Nathaniel turned his glass slowly between his fingers. Manage her. As though she were a wayward servant. As though Eleanor hadn’t already shown more wit and fire in one evening than most women in a dozen ballrooms.

Before he could form a reply, his father spoke.

The Duke of Wycombe’s voice was smooth, calm, and cold as cut marble. “The women in our family have always been kept happy and obedient. That is the key. A light touch with a firm hand. We’ve managed that balance for generations.”

Nathaniel’s gaze slid to his father. He did not flinch, but something shifted behind his eyes. Something sharp.

“Obedience,” Nathaniel said lightly, “seems a dull ambition in a wife.”

Ravensdale chuckled, mistaking it for jest. “Spoken like a man who hasn’t been married yet.”

Nathaniel didn’t laugh. He drained the last of his brandy and set the glass down with more force than necessary, the crystal clinking sharply against the tray.

“I imagine dullness isn’t a problem I’ll have,” he said and left it there.

The older man chuckled again, oblivious.

“It’s a fine match,” Lord Ravensdale said, nodding as though to reassure himself.

“For both our families. Henshaw shipping has never been stronger, Eleanor will inherit a tidy share, in time. And with Wycombe’s reach into the North and the mills …

well, there’s nothing we couldn’t do together.

Expansion. Influence in Parliament. Even land abroad if you’ve a mind for it. ”

Nathaniel’s eyes rested on the fire, its flames flickering gold and white against the hearth’s iron grate. He wasn’t really listening. The words filtered through the smoke like something distant and inconsequential.

Ravensdale’s voice rose slightly. “Two powerful names brought together, that’s the thing. That’s legacy. Our children will want for nothing.”

Nathaniel offered a polite nod, though the brandy sat heavy in his hand and the taste in his mouth had gone flat.

His father, still standing like a monument beside the hearth, gave a short, perfunctory hum of approval. “A practical arrangement,” he said. “As it should be.”

Nathaniel didn’t flinch. But the words grated. As it should be.

A business transaction. Arithmetic of fortunes and titles.

Not once did they speak of her. Not really. Only what she brought with her.

Not her fierce intelligence, not the fire in her eyes when she goaded him at dinner, not the delicious sting of her refusal in the corridor. Only the coin she would carry into his life, as though that were the sum of her worth.

He found his voice again, quiet and dry. “And what of the lady’s wishes?”

That drew silence.

Ravensdale cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Well. It’s not as though she’s been forced.”

“Not in so many words,” Nathaniel murmured.

His father’s jaw tightened. “She will learn to be content.”

Content. A bone tossed to a dog.

Nathaniel let the silence stretch. The fire crackled beside them. Glass clinked faintly as Ravensdale refilled his own drink.

Somewhere, beyond the heavy doors and the velveted drawing rooms, Eleanor was holding court with the other ladies. Perhaps laughing at some perfectly placed remark, half of it meant for him.

The match was a strong one. By all appearances, it ought to be a triumph.

But Nathaniel wasn’t a man fond of appearances. And Eleanor Henshaw was not a woman made for contentment.

He wasn’t sure what that made them.

Only that, whatever it was, it wouldn’t be dull.