Page 38 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Well,” she said at last, “my lessons are paying off; you will make a fine duchess.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor replied, not quite able to keep the dryness from her tone.

Lady Mulberry huffed and gestured for her to sit. Eleanor perched lightly on the stool, adjusting her skirts while Lady Mulberry lowered herself onto the nearby settee with a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan.

“Oh, blast this hip,” the old woman muttered.

Eleanor smothered a smile. “Would you like a cushion?”

“I’m not made of wax,” Lady Mulberry sniffed, shifting anyway. “Now. I asked to speak with you because, in spite of everything—the scandal, the incident, the rushed marriage—you are an Egerton. And you are my granddaughter.”

“That’s comforting,” Eleanor murmured.

Lady Mulberry folded her hands in her lap. “I see a quiet strength in you, Eleanor. One most women never learn to wield. Not even in old age. You’ve a spine, hidden beneath all that sighing and embroidery.”

Eleanor blinked. “I don’t sigh.”

Lady Mulberry raised a brow.

“Often,” Eleanor added.

The older woman leaned forward, and suddenly, despite the mauve and the jewels and the general air of disapproval that followed her like perfume, she looked tired. Earnest.

“You are more than capable of becoming a duchess. You’ve been preparing for it your entire life.”

“I wasn’t aware I was in preparation,” Eleanor said though she felt the words settle low in her chest.

Lady Mulberry waved a dismissive hand. “All those lessons. Posture. French. Needlework. Standing still for hours without blinking. You think that was for sport?”

“I thought it was punishment.” Eleanor giggled.

“It was preparation,” she snapped. “One doesn’t rule a household—or a title—by batting her lashes and swooning incorners. You’re clever and perceptive and more resilient than you give yourself credit for.”

Eleanor hesitated then said quietly, “You must be pleased, then. I’m marrying a duke.”

To her surprise, Lady Mulberry did not nod. Instead, she inhaled sharply and glanced toward the window, as if ashamed of something only she could see.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” she said. “Twice over in fact. A title means nothing if the man behind it makes your life small. What matters now is your happiness. And your family’s. That is the only legacy worth leaving.”

Eleanor stared at her. The words seemed too soft for the mouth they came from. She had never once heard her grandmother speak of happiness as if it were an acceptable ambition. She didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“I’m not sure I know how to be happy with him,” Eleanor said at last.

Lady Mulberry turned back, her eyes sharp again. “Then do what Kitty did. And what I had to do before her. Learn. Adapt. Act.”

“That’s your advice?” Eleanor said. “Be a chameleon?”

“No,” said Lady Mulberry, lifting her chin. “Be regal.”

Eleanor blinked.

“Do you know what that means?” Lady Mulberry pressed. “It means bending without breaking. It means holding your household together when the world is falling to bits. It means guiding your husband, gently and invisibly, until he thinks it was his idea all along.”

Eleanor tried not to laugh. “His Grace isn’t the sort of man who allows himself to be guided.”

“Then you’ll have to get cleverer about it.”

“He’s… direct,” she said. “Blunt. He doesn’t care about society’s rules, or etiquette, or the art of polite deception. He just—he’s like a force of nature.”