"The house will be lovely, my lady," Mrs Williams said quietly. "Your sister and her family will be most comfortable."
"Thank you, Mrs Williams." Eleanor turned back to the window, blinking against the sudden burning in her eyes. "That will be—"
The sound of carriage wheels on gravel cut through her words.
The room went silent.
Eleanor turned slowly toward the window, that peculiar sixth sense that all wronged wives possessed prickling at the base of her skull. Mrs Williams had gone pale. Tom nearly tumbled from the ladder in his haste to see.
"Is that...?" Mary whispered, abandoning her ribbon.
"The Egerton coach," Mrs Williams confirmed, her voice faint. "Oh dear. Oh, my lady, I don't think—"
But Eleanor was already moving to the window, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs.
The massive, gleaming monstrosity of a coach—black lacquer, gold crest, large enough to transport a small army—dominated her drive. The matched greys stamped and snorted, vapor puffing from their nostrils in the cold December air.
The door opened.
Richard Egerton, Earl of Egerton, descended first. His face suggested he'd been sucking lemons. Possibly for several hours.
Then Lady Egerton, the Countess, resplendent in midnight blue silk and enough disapproval to sink a frigate.
And then…
"Oh my," breathed Mary.
They were extracting someone from the carriage. A man. Tall, dark haired, bent at an unnatural angle between two Egerton footmen like a particularly reluctant piece of furniture.
Eleanor's stomach dropped to her sensible boots.
Her husband.
Aubrey Egerton, Viscount Madeley. Who had not spoken to her since their nuptials two years ago. Who had looked straight through her at the Michaelmas assembly one year past as though she were a boring patch of wallpaper. Who was, even crumpled with obvious agony, still unfairly, devastatinglyhandsome.
She'd made her peace with being the plain wife of a beautiful husband. What she had not made peace with was being the invisible plain wife of a beautiful husband.
"My lady?" Mrs Williams's voice was small. "Should I... should we...?"
"Prepare refreshments, Mrs Williams." Eleanor's voice came out admirably steady. "It appears we're receiving callers."
Tom scrambled down from the ladder. Mary dropped the garland. The household staff arranged themselves in a nervous cluster near the stairs, trying to look professional while clearly desperate to witness whatever fresh disaster was about to unfold.
Mr Davies, the butler, opened the door without ceremony. Lord Egerton strode in, his wife behind him, followed by two footmen half-carrying, half-dragging Aubrey between them.
“Davies! The drawing room!” the earl hollered. The group swept past her into the parlour. Eleanor stood frozen in the hallway for a moment before following.
"Put him there," the earl ordered.
The footmen deposited Aubrey onto the cushions with more efficiency than gentleness. He bit back a sound, his face going grey, his hands clutching at the upholstery.
Eleanor stood frozen by the door, watching as her husband was arranged on her—no, his—furniture.
"Out," Lord Egerton barked at the footmen. Then, louder: "Davies! All servants to the kitchen. Now. Close the door behind you."
The rustle of confused servants retreating. The click of the door closing.
Silence.
