He would know soon enough.
When the conversation reached its natural end, James cut through it cleanly. “I will see you at the wedding.”
He turned to leave.
Eleanor moved with him automatically, escorting him toward the front hall with the practiced politeness of a lady who had spent her life smoothing edges. Servants bowed as they passed. The house seemed to hold its breath.
At the door, James accepted his gloves.
Eleanor stopped just inside the threshold. “Your Grace.”
James turned.
“You have done what you came to do,” she said. “You have the license. You have my father’s compliance. You will have your wife.”
His gaze narrowed. “And?”
Eleanor’s eyes were steady. “Do not mistake that for gratitude.”
James studied her, surprised by the directness.
“I did not come seeking gratitude,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “You came seeking obedience.”
James stepped closer, close enough that her breath hitched, though she did not retreat. “I came seeking a duchess who will not collapse the moment she is tested.”
Her voice sharpened. “Then you should not have come here.”
James paused. “Why?”
“Because if you test me,” Eleanor said softly, “you may not like what you find.”
For the first time in years, James found himself without an immediate response.
Eleanor dipped into a curtsy, flawless, and stepped back. “Good day, Your Grace.”
The door closed.
And James Montague stood on the steps of St. George Manor, staring at polished wood as though it had just struck him across the face.
Speechless.
Alone.
And faintly aware that he had not chosen a meek bride at all.
CHAPTER 6
“Tell me you are not truly marrying in a week.”
Roderick’s voice carried the sort of disbelief that was almost admiration, as though James had announced he intended to swim the Thames in winter for sport.
James did not look up from the decanter as he poured brandy into two glasses. “Alright, Roderick, I am not marrying in a week.”
His friend exhaled a visible deep breath, and James continued, “I am marrying in less than a week.”
Roderick Elkins, Duke of Wycliffe, lounged in the chair nearest the hearth with all the ease of a man who had never once been told no and had decided the world suited him better that way. His coat was cut perfectly. His cravat had been tied with careless precision. He held his glass as though it were an extension of his hand rather than something requiring attention.
