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“I never imagined it would be like this,” she admitted.

Nathaniel looked over at her, no longer poised in opposition, but angled slightly towards one another. Just two figures in cautious detente. Her voice had softened since his proposal, but there was steel beneath it still.

“Like what?” he asked.

Eleanor shrugged lightly. “This. Duty paraded as triumph. Being handed off like a hot potato.” Her mouth twisted in an effort of a smile, but an unsuccessful one. “And pretending to be grateful for it.”

He didn’t reply at once. The words rang with too much truth for any interruption.

So he watched her instead, how her hands folded in her lap, too still for comfort.

And how, for all her restraint, she looked heartbreakingly young just then.

Not childish, but young in the way of someone who had expected a different world.

“I once believed,” she went on, “that I might marry for love. Or affection, at least.” Her voice was quieter now, almost cracking at the edges. “A foolish notion, I know.”

“No,” he said softly. “Not foolish.”

She turned to him, evidently surprised by the gentleness in his tone. Her eyes met his, which were somehow sharp, perceptive, but always calculating. She was waiting for him to dismiss it. Or worse, pity her.

But he said nothing more. Instead, he just looked at her, his expression unreadable save for a flicker of something that was not quite regret, not quite hope. But something human, nonetheless.

Eleanor glanced away, unsettled.

“I suppose you think that I know you and you know me now,” she posed, suddenly wary of his presence. “Taking into account our little … skirmish in Hyde Park and this one dinner.”

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “I don’t.”

That, too, surprised her. She glanced back at him, her heart beating in her throat.

“But,” he added, “I would like to.”

She blinked. The silence that followed wasn’t cold. On the contrary, it was contemplative, like two opponents laying down weapons, if only for the time being.

Eventually, Eleanor nodded once. A queen granting terms. “Fine,” she said. “Let it be done.”

The truce had been drawn. Not with affection. Not with joy. But with something else. Respect, perhaps. Or possibility.

“All right.” He nodded, walking up to her.

For a moment, she believed he would take her by the hand, and for a moment, she didn’t know how she would react to that physical contact.

However, he didn’t reach for her. She wondered if he ever wished to.

He seemed as if he wanted to say something else but then changed his mind at the last minute.

He headed towards the door, and there, he hesitated. His hand hovered near the polished brass handle, his gaze focused on the wood-panelled corridor beyond. He turned back to her, not fully, but just enough to let her see the resolve in his expression.

“I won’t humiliate you,” he said quietly. “Whatever else comes of this … I give you my word.”

Eleanor stood near the hearth, a line of firelight running along her shoulder like a sash. She didn’t soften. But she didn’t flinch either. Instead, she met his gaze with something steely and sharp.

“I won’t become a silent fixture in your life,” she replied.

His mouth twitched. The faintest curve. Not quite a smile, but close. Close enough that she noticed.

“No,” he said. “I never imagined you would.”

And with that, he dipped his head in a half bow, half something more personal, and let himself out. The door shut behind him with a quiet click, but the echo of their exchange lingered. It was not warmth exactly that remained in the room. But it was no longer cold either.

In the corridor, Nathaniel exhaled. Slowly. Deliberately.

She was going to be impossible.

He wasn’t entirely sure if he meant that as a complaint or not.

***

The parlour door creaked open just as Eleanor had settled onto the settee. Her mother swept in first, buoyed by uncontainable energy, followed by Charlotte, who was carrying a tea tray and a look of quiet curiosity.

“Well, thank heavens,” Eleanor’s mother declared, her voice bright with relief. “It’s settled, then! I told your father it would all come right in the end.”

Eleanor looked up, her expression unreadable. “Yes, it is settled,” she echoed.

Her mother either missed or simply chose to ignore the flatness in her daughter’s tone. Instead, she crossed the room, as her fingers fluttered at the corners of her lace collar.

“Lord Fairfax is respectable, well-positioned, and—thank God—young and handsome. We’ve avoided gossip, and you’ve secured a future. A very good one.”

Charlotte glanced at Eleanor as she set the tray down, arching a brow as if to say, must she? Eleanor fought the urge to smirk.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” Eleanor said mildly.

Her mother didn’t hear the irony. “You should,” she agreed, sitting across from her. “There are girls in society who would claw one another for half as much. And Lord Fairfax is a good man.”

Eleanor looked towards the window, where the light caught in the folds of the heavy curtains. “I don’t know that,” she said, softly.

Her mother pursed her lips, smoothing her skirts with a practised hand. “You have a lifetime to find out.”

“A lifetime,” Eleanor repeated. “And what if I don’t like what I find out?”

At that, her mother froze. Not obviously. There was no audible gasp, no startle, but something in her eyes shifted. She stared at the embroidery on her sleeve for a long moment, as if reading something there only she could see.

Then, with forced brightness, she said, “A woman has to learn to be happy, Eleanor. That choice is in her hands.”

Eleanor turned her head slowly to look at her mother, studying her carefully. There was something brittle in the woman’s posture now, some shadow of a memory she’d hurriedly locked back into its box.

She didn’t believe it. Not for a moment.

“Well, that doesn’t sound quite right,” Charlotte said airily, pouring tea with a casual defiance. “Happiness may be many things, but I doubt it’s something one simply decides into existence.”

Lady Ravensdale sniffed. “You’ve never been married, Charlotte.” Then, she took her own cup with brisk efficiency. “You girls speak of happiness as if it were affable. A good match, one that is well-positioned and properly managed, that makes all the difference in the world.”

Eleanor sipped, then said carefully, “And what of affection?”

Her mother gave a thin smile. “Affection can be grown. Like ivy. It clings, given time.”

“Or strangles,” Charlotte muttered into her cup.

Lady Ravensdale shot her a look. “You are far too bold for a young woman with no prospects.”

Charlotte beamed. “That’s the best time to be bold.”

Eleanor hid her smile behind her teacup. Sometimes she would forget how much she liked Charlotte. And these were exactly the moments when she remembered it.

Eleanor’s mother sighed, as if suffering fools. “Eleanor, my dear, you mustn’t let your idealism cloud your future. Lord Fairfax has agreed to marry you. He’s titled, presentable, and—unlike many—he does not gamble or womanize. That alone is rare.”

“Indeed,” Eleanor murmured. “A true paragon.”

Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Do not jest. He has a fine reputation, and we have every reason to expect civility and respect. That is more than many wives receive.”

Charlotte leaned back in her chair, regarding Eleanor thoughtfully. “Still, I think it’s fair to want something more than civility. It’s not absurd to want kindness. Or, dare we dream, interest.”

Lady Ravensdale set her cup down with a decisive clink. “Then make him interested,” she said. “Use your charm. You have beauty, you have sense. You mustn’t waste your energies resisting what’s already done.”

Eleanor glanced down into her tea, where the light caught the rippling surface. Her reflection wavered, a blur of burgundy silk and quiet doubt.

“I don’t intend to resist,” she said softly.

Both women turned towards her. Charlotte’s brow lifted, curious. Her mother’s expression eased slightly, and the beginnings of satisfaction were slowly starting to form.

“But I also don’t intend,” Eleanor continued, “to vanish into someone else's life like a page turned in a book.”

Lady Henshaw sighed again, but this time, Charlotte smiled.

“Good,” Charlotte said. “I’d have to go and rescue you otherwise.”

Eleanor looked at her, and for the first time that morning, she laughed. It was a quiet, reluctant thing, but real. And something in her chest uncoiled.

Not hope. Not yet. But resistance, refined into resolve. And that, perhaps, was even more dangerous.