Not the ordinary dullness of a late rising, but the sharper irritation of time squandered and of a schedule abandoned without permission. His eyes opened to muted daylight and a hearth that had been recently stirred. Heat still breathed from the coals.
And beside the fire, on a small table he did not recall approving for such use, a tray waited.
Steam curled from a covered dish. A pot sat beside it, cloth-wrapped, warmth held close like a secret. There was bread, cut fruit, and a small pitcher of cream. His stomach tightened with recognition.
Someone had arranged this.
The question should have been simple. Mrs. Hargreaves was old enough to run the household blindfolded. Thomas was conscientious to a fault. Either would have ensured he ate before the day swallowed him whole.
And yet James stared at the tray as though it were an accusation.
Because there was a third possibility.
Eleanor.
His mouth went dry, and the memory arrived uninvited of her voice in the drawing room the night before, calm and unflinching.
Whether I should wait.
He had given an answer. Or something like one. He had promised that if he left again, he would inform her. He had promised himself, as he walked back to his room last night, that they would take breakfast together this morning. Something like an olive branch offered because he knew he had let her down in that regard.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
He had slept through it.
A soft knock sounded.
“Come in,” he said, voice rough.
The door opened to Thomas, immaculate as ever, holding himself with the quiet patience of a man who had been waiting some time.
“Your Grace,” Thomas said.
James looked pointedly at the tray. “Who brought this?”
Thomas’s expression remained neutral, but James knew him well enough to catch the faintest flicker of something between satisfaction and amusement.
“Her Grace,” Thomas said. “Or rather, she instructed that it be brought.”
James’s chest tightened. “She was in here.”
“No, Your Grace.”
James paused, then corrected himself. “Then who?”
“I brought it in at Her Grace’s request.”
James stared at the food as though it might change shape into a confession. “And she requested this because?”
Thomas’s mouth twitched. He had the gall to look pleased.
“Because,” Thomas said, “Her Grace waited for you in the dining room until the breakfast turned cold.”
James’s fingers flexed once at his side. “She waited.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
