His gaze darkened. “Then I will assume your silence is consent and you will be my wife within the week.”
“That is absurd.”
“It is efficient.”
Her pulse raced. “Why?”
A corner of his mouth curved, humorless. “Because either outcome serves me.”
She stared. “How?”
“A marriage would provide insurance,” he said simply. “And a rejection would end speculation.”
She frowned. “Insurance for what?”
“That,” he said, “is not your concern.”
She bristled. “You are remarkably arrogant.”
“I am a duke.”
“That does not excuse–”
“No, but it does explain it,” he replied coolly.
Eleanor shook her head, anger and something far more dangerous tangling inside her.
“I assume,” he said, his voice dropping, “that you are not reckless without reason.”
His nearness was unbearable. Her thoughts slipped, her skin prickling as though aware of him before her mind could catch up.
The words settled heavy between them.
“You do not even know me,” she said.
“I know that you are loyal,” he corrected. “And that you will sacrifice yourself without hesitation for those you love.”
Her breath caught.
The Duke straightened. “Until tomorrow, Miss Barker.”
He turned toward the door.
“Wait,” Eleanor said.
He paused, glancing back.
“You are certain,” she asked quietly, “that you will not release me if I remain silent?”
His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Entirely.”
The door closed behind him.
Eleanor stood alone, her heart racing, her mind spinning.
She fled up the stairs, skirts gathered in her hands, driven by instinct more than thought. Her room awaited, her desk, the paper she would use to free herself.
She reached the landing and nearly collided with Arabella.
