Still, the absence tugged at her nerves. It always did. He had made a habit of appearing when it suited him, and she had made a habit of pretending it did not matter.
The first guests were announced. Polite greetings, practiced courtesies, names and titles sliding through the air like silk.
Eleanor did not falter. She smiled. She welcomed. She held the room steady.
Then she saw her father.
Norman Barker stood just inside the entryway, greeting someone in line with the casual authority of a man who believed he belonged everywhere he stood. Beside him was a woman Eleanor did not recognize. She was tall and composed, and dressed in an understated elegance that suggested wealth without the need to prove it.
The woman’s hair was dark, pinned neatly. Her eyes moved with quiet calculation, taking in the hall, the candles, Eleanor herself.
Eleanor’s stomach tightened.
She had not been introduced to Lady Whitcombe before. Social rules had kept them apart. But she had heard whispers, careful suggestions, and the kind of chatter that disguised itself as concern.
Lady Whitcombe is close to the Duke.
Lady Whitcombe is… useful.
Lady Whitcombe is not a woman you want watching you.
Eleanor forced her smile to remain smooth.
The line moved. Norman’s laugh carried across the foyer, too loud, too familiar. The woman beside him smiled politely, then her gaze lifted and caught Eleanor’s.
A flicker of interest.
Then Norman stepped forward at last to be received, as though he were doing Eleanor a favor by arriving.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Graham announced, though the formality sounded strained.
Norman swept into a bow that contained no humility. “Duchess.”
Eleanor inclined her head. “Father.”
Norman’s smile was sharp. “Your ball is… elaborate.”
“It is to showcase Blackmere Park,” Eleanor replied evenly.
Norman’s gaze slid over her sea-glass and shimmering gown, and Eleanor felt the familiar instinct to brace herself for critique.
Instead, Norman turned slightly and gestured to the woman at his side.
“Allow me,” Norman said, “to present Lady Whitcombe. A dear friend.”
Lady Whitcombe stepped forward with a polished curtsey. “Your Grace.”
Eleanor’s smile remained fixed. “Lady Whitcombe.”
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze held Eleanor’s, calm and measuring. “Blackmere is quite transformed.”
“It is meant to be,” Eleanor replied.
Lady Whitcombe’s mouth curved faintly. “One might say it looks… alive.”
Eleanor could not tell whether it was compliment or warning.
Before she could respond, movement caught her eye across the entryway.
