CHAPTER 3
The words cut through the house like a blade.
The sounds of Arabella’s rushed footsteps traveled closer to Charlotte’s room until finally she too stood at the doorway.
Eleanor clenched her fingers, still stained faintly with soot from Charlotte’s hearth, into a fist. The footman’s tone was careful, but his eyes flicked toward her with unmistakable curiosity.
“Again,” Lord St. George demanded from the doorway, confused by the sudden.
The footman straightened. “The Duke of Langford, my lord.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Expectant.
Lord St. George’s face transformed at once. Irritation smoothed into astonishment, astonishment into something very nearly resembling triumph.
“The Duke of Langford,” he repeated, savoring it. “Here?”
“Yes, my lord. He requests the presence of his betrothed.”
Charlotte gasped softly.
Eleanor did not move.
Lord St. George laughed, short and delighted. “Well. That settles it.” He turned sharply toward Charlotte’s rooms. “Charlotte, my dear, you must not keep His Grace waiting.”
Charlotte was already rising from her chair; her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Papa, I am not properly dressed.”
“You look quite charming as you are,” he assured her. “The Duke will understand.”
Arabella’s eyes darted from Eleanor to Charlotte to their father and back to Eleanor again. “Father,” she said, her voice unsteady, “perhaps –”
“Enough,” he snapped. “This is no time for dithering.”
Eleanor found her voice at last. “He did not say Charlotte.”
Lord St. George waved a dismissive hand. “Do not be absurd.”
The house seemed to surge into motion around them. Servants hurried. Doors opened. Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Within moments, all three daughters were descending together.
Charlotte first, then Arabella, and Eleanor walked behind them, her spine straight, her expression carefully composed. The gown she wore was serviceable, the color subdued. It did not command attention.
Charlotte, by contrast, floated downward in her morning attire, though she was wrapped in a silk robe so fine it caught the light with every step. Her hair lay loose about her shoulders, arranged to appear artless and fragile.
Arabella followed, her dress neat and flattering, though plainly made. Her mouth was tight with worry.
The Duke of Langford stood in the front hall.
He was taller than Eleanor expected. Broad-shouldered. Standing with unmistakable authority, and dressed in what appeared to be a very fine riding cloak. His dark gaze swept the staircase once, assessing, and then fixed.
On Eleanor.
Lord St. George stepped forward at once. “Your Grace. What an honor.”
James inclined his head briefly. “Lord St. George.”
Charlotte dipped into a graceful curtsy, her smile radiant. “Your Grace.”
