“This is Blackmere,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.
The senior staff stepped forward one by one. The butler. The housekeeper. The steward. Each bowed or curtsied, their eyes flicking to Eleanor with frank assessment.
“Your Grace,” the housekeeper said. “Welcome.”
Eleanor nodded. “Thank you.”
James’s hand lingered at the small of her back as they entered. The touch was brief. Deliberate. It left her oddly unsteady.
Inside, the house was quieter than Langford House, less ornate, more purposeful. No flowers cluttered the hall. No excess. Everything had a place.
James turned to her. “You will meet the rest of the staff in due course. For now – ” He paused, as though weighing something. “There are a few expectations we should address.”
Her stomach tightened. “Expectations.”
“Rules,” he clarified.
She stiffened. “I see.”
He gestured toward a side room, empty and quiet. “In here.”
The door closed behind them.
James did not sit. Neither did she.
“There are three,” he said evenly. “They are nonnegotiable.”
Eleanor folded her hands again. “Very well.”
“First,” he said, “you will never ask where I am going.”
Her brows rose. “Ever?”
“Ever.”
She considered this. “That is… unusual.”
He did not disagree. “Second, you will never interrupt me when I am working.”
“And how,” she asked, “will I know when that is?”
“You will know.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. “Convenient.”
His gaze flickered. “Third, you will never enter the attic.”
Silence followed.
“The attic,” she repeated slowly. “Of this house, or Ashbourne, or –?”
“Yes. All.”
“May I ask why?”
“No.”
She laughed softly, incredulous. “You expect me to agree to rules without explanation?”
