“The Duke prefers the walk to appear purposeful,” the steward had said, polite as a prayer. “He wishes to tour the boundaries with the agent present.”
Purposeful, Eleanor thought.
Everything with James was purposeful.
Including his absence.
It was not merely that James kept himself busy. It was the way he did so with a deliberate refusal to occupy the same space as her.
The first morning after church, he had taken breakfast in the dining room with her, reciting the schedule as if he were announcing troop movements. Since then, Eleanor had seen him only in passing.
She would hear him, though.
The sound of his boots on the stairs. The low murmur of his voice through a closed door. The crisp cadence of his instructions to the steward. The occasional sharp snap of a bell.
She learned quickly that he took most of his meals in his study.
Or in his chambers.
A servant would pass her in the corridor carrying a covered tray, eyes lowered, moving quickly, as though even the act of bringing food to the Duke needed the speed of compliance.
The heat between them that had flared so suddenly in the church pew had not disappeared, exactly.
It had simply been deprived of air.
And without air, it could not burn.
By late afternoon of the second day, Eleanor found herself in the servants’ hall doorway, watching them take their own modest meal.
Conversation hushed.
Not entirely, but enough that she noticed.
Mrs. Hargreaves appeared at her shoulder. “They are not accustomed to being observed.”
“I am not observing,” Eleanor said. “I am learning.”
Mrs. Hargreaves’s gaze moved across the room. “They respect him.”
Eleanor’s eyes drifted toward the distant corridor where James’s study lay. “Theyfearhim.”
Mrs. Hargreaves did not deny it. “The Duke expects excellence. He does not raise his voice often, but when he is displeased, the house feels it.”
Eleanor had noticed.
There were moments when the air itself seemed to tighten, as if Blackmere Park sensed his anger and braced for it.
She lowered her voice. “Does he… always keep such distance?”
Mrs. Hargreaves’s expression remained neutral. “It is not my place to comment on the Duke’s habits.”
Eleanor nodded, then added, “What is in the attic?”
Mrs. Hargreaves’s posture changed. Only slightly, but enough to be seen.
“That is not a part of the household we enter,” the housekeeper said.
“Because he forbids it,” Eleanor replied.
