Arabella’s eyes widened slightly.
Her father sputtered, his ears the color scarlet. “How dare you– You insolent–”
“Cream,” James said firmly.
The single word silenced everyone.
Charlotte blinked. “Your Grace?”
James turned toward the seamstress. “You can procure cream fabric in two days’ time?”
The seamstress looked terrified. “I– if I send–”
“You will send,” James said. “And you will be paid well for speed.”
Her eyes darted to Lord St. George, who looked as though he might explode.
James did not care.
He turned back to Eleanor. “Anything else?”
Eleanor held his gaze. “A simple bonnet. Not the one selected for me by my sister with the extra flowers.”
Charlotte’s cheeks flamed. “It has French lace!”
“It is excessive,” Eleanor replied.
James’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Simple hat.”
Lord St. George’s voice came out strained. “Your Grace, surely these details–”
“Aremyconcern,” James said coolly. “She will be my wife.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
Eleanor’s fingers stilled on the fabric. Her gaze sharpened as though she had heard something beneath them she did not trust.
Lord St. George forced a tight smile. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Charlotte looked as if she might spit.
James turned back to Eleanor one last time. “You will be ready.”
It was not a question.
Eleanor’s voice was steady. “I will.”
Lord St. George began speaking again at once, pushing forward with forced cheer, discussing guest lists and ceremony time and which clergyman held the right connections.
James listened only enough to ensure there was nothing requiring correction.
His attention kept returning to Eleanor.
The way she stood. The way she held herself as though she expected to be struck and yet would not flinch when the blow came.
Strong-willed, he thought.
But was it defiance born of strength… or defiance born of desperation?
