“You have not said whether you intend to keep those rules forever.”
“No,” he replied. “Only until I trust you.”
She held his gaze. “And how will I know when that is?”
His eyes lingered on her face, unreadable. “You will know.”
The door closed behind him.
Eleanor stood alone in the quiet room, her heart racing, her cheeks flushed, and her mind in turmoil.
She had thought marriage would cage her.
She had not expected it to feel like a challenge.
Or that the man she had married would walk away when she most wanted him not to.
CHAPTER 8
He did not come to her that night.
Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, listening to the low, distant hush of Blackmere Park settling for the night. Somewhere below her window, a groom led a horse into the stables. A door closed softly. Footsteps faded. The house exhaled into quiet.
And still he did not come.
“Come on, El. What are you doing?” she said to herself.
She shifted, smoothing her skirt again though it did not need smoothing, and glanced toward the door for the hundredth time. The candles on her dressing table burned steadily, their light throwing gentle shadows across the walls and the pale coverlet.
Married, her mind whispered again. Her chest tightened at the thought.
Perhaps he expected her in his room, or should she be in his room?
The possibility slid into her thoughts and refused to leave. She stood slowly, pacing the length of the carpet. Three steps to the window. Turn. Three steps back to the bed. Turn. The rhythm did nothing to quiet her.
She had not been told what to do.
No instructions had been given. No awkward conversation. No gentle warning. The housekeeper had simply shown her to these rooms, curtsied, and left her with a soft, unreadable smile.
If her mother were alive, Eleanor thought, she would not be standing here like this. She would have been told what to expect. What to say. What to do with her hands, her voice, her heart. She would have been prepared.
And Gwen –
If Gwen were here, Eleanor would already know. Gwen would have spoken frankly, kindly, perhaps with a little laughter to soften the edges of what must surely be strange and frightening and important.
Eleanor pressed her palms together. “This is ridiculous,” she murmured.
She straightened and went to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the corridor.
Empty.
The lamps along the walls cast soft pools of light over the rugs. Everything smelled faintly of wax and clean linen. The house was immense and watchful, as though it were holding its breath.
James had said not to interrupt him when he was working.
And he had said not to ask where he was going.
He had not said she could not look for him.
