Eleanor closed her door quietly and stepped into the corridor.
She knew where his study was. She had been shown it earlier that evening, during the formal, polite tour. The door lay at the end of the east corridor, where the house grew quieter and the air cooler.
Her footsteps sounded far too loud.
When she reached the door, she slowed, then stopped.
Light glowed beneath the threshold.
He was inside.
Her hand hovered, uncertain, then fell back to her side.
Do not interrupt him when he is working.
She leaned against the wall opposite the door instead, folding her arms, her gaze fixed on the seam of light at the floor.
He could not possibly work all night, she reasoned.
Minutes passed. Or perhaps it was longer. Time stretched in strange, fluid ways when she was alone with her thoughts.
Her mind wandered again, unhelpfully. What was she supposed to feel?
Anticipation? Fear? Relief? All three tangled together. She was a duchess now, with rooms of her own and servants who curtsied to her, and yet she felt like the same girl who had been ordered to carry invitations through her father’s house.
Her marriage had happened so quickly. She had barely had time to understand that she belonged to another life now, another house, another man.
James.
Her husband.
The word made her stomach flutter, unsteady and strange.
The door across from her opened.
Eleanor startled, straightening too quickly.
James stepped into the corridor, the lamplight catching the dark line of his coat, the white of his collar. He looked composed, as always, his expression unreadable. He did not see her at first.
He turned to close the study door.
Eleanor swallowed. “Your Grace?”
He looked up sharply. “Your Grace?”
Heat rushed to her face. “I – ”
He studied her, taking in her pale gown, the tension in her posture, the way she stood there as though she had been waiting.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” she said quickly. Then, more softly, “I mean… I was waiting.”
He hesitated. “For me.”
“Yes.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, slow and unmistakable.
