“You are the best sister in England.”
Eleanor reached up and brushed a curl from Arabella’s cheek. “Then allow me this.”
The music shifted again, signaling the end of the set. Almost immediately, a gentleman appeared at the edge of the antechamber, hovering with polite uncertainty.
“Miss Arabella?” he ventured. “If you are at liberty…”
Arabella turned, surprise flickering across her face.
Eleanor stepped back at once. “Go.”
Arabella hesitated, searching her sister’s face. “You will not regret this?”
Eleanor smiled, steady and sincere. “No.”
Arabella nodded, then allowed herself to be led away, glancing back once more before disappearing into the light of the ballroom.
Eleanor remained where she was, alone now, the echo of music pressing in around her once more. She smoothed her gloves, straightened her shoulders, and prepared to return to her circle of curious smiles.
Little did she know, the carefully constructed lie was about to be put to the ultimate test because at the house that she had never visited and that had laid vacant all Season, a duke, who did not know her name yet, stepped out of his carriage.
CHAPTER 2
Eleanor woke to the sound of sharp knocking.
Not the discreet tap of a maid seeking permission, but the sort that assumed obedience before it was granted.
“Miss Eleanor.”
The voice carried easily through the thin morning quiet. Charlotte’s maid, breathless and already irritated. “Miss Charlotte requires your assistance. Immediately.”
Eleanor lay still for a moment, staring at the pale canopy above her bed. Her body ached with the dull fatigue of a night spent too alert, too aware of every whispered glance and calculated smile. Sleep had come late and without kindness.
“Tell Miss Charlotte I shall come presently,” Eleanor said at last.
There was a pause, then a sniff. “She said not to delay.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Presently,” she repeated, calmly.
Footsteps retreated, sharp with displeasure.
Only then did Eleanor sit up.
She washed and dressed with purpose, choosing a plain morning gown and smoothing her hair into a neat knot that would not invite comment. She moved slowly, refusing to let Charlotte dictate even the pace of her breathing.
Before answering another summons, she turned down the corridor toward Arabella’s room.
Arabella’s maid admitted her at once, her expression strained. The curtains were half-drawn, pale light spilling across the coverlet where Arabella sat upright, already dressed but untouched by the morning’s usual energy.
“You should not be here,” Arabella said at once. “She will be furious.”
“She is always furious,” Eleanor replied, closing the door behind her. “How are you?”
Arabella’s mouth tightened. “How do you think I am?”
Eleanor crossed the room and sat beside her. “I hoped you might feel better after sleeping.”
