“Already?” Charlotte asked, startled.
“Yes.”
“But the guests – ”
“Have eaten,” James said. “And we have a journey.”
Lord St. George nodded quickly. “Of course. Of course.”
As they prepared to depart, Eleanor changed into her travel attire – a simple pelisse, sensible boots, a plain bonnet.
Charlotte’s gaze swept her dismissively. “That is… modest.”
“It is practical,” Eleanor replied.
James stepped closer. “It is perfect.”
Charlotte’s lips tightened.
Lord St. George cleared his throat. “You might have dressed her more suitably, given her new position.”
James turned slowly. “You will not comment on the Duchess’s appearance.”
The words settled heavily.
Lord St. George flushed. “Your Grace – ”
“I will not repeat myself.”
Silence followed.
James offered Eleanor his arm. She took it.
They stepped outside into a shower of rice and well-wishes. Voices rose. Hands waved. The carriage door opened.
James assisted Eleanor inside, his hand steady at her back.
As the carriage rolled away toward Blackmere Park, James caught Eleanor watching the manor recede.
Her expression was unreadable.
He sat back, opposite her, the weight of what they had done settling at last.
The door closed.
And the road stretched forward.
The carriage wheels struck the road with a steady, hypnotic rhythm that did nothing to calm Eleanor’s thoughts.
She sat opposite her husband with her gloved hands folded too neatly in her lap, her spine straight, her gaze fixed anywhere but on him. The interior smelled faintly of leather and winter air and something sharper she suspected belonged to James himself.
Married.
The word pressed in from every direction.
She felt ashamed of the spectacle, of Charlotte’s voice in the chapel, of the flowers that had swallowed the manor whole. Relieved to be away, to have the door closed on that house at last. And beneath it all, coiled tight and restless, was nerves.
James had not spoken since they left the churchyard.
