Her voice sharpened. “You said you did not care about Society.”
“I do not,” he replied. “But I care about consequence.”
Eleanor stared at him, breathing harder now. “Consequence for whom?”
“For you,” James said.
The words landed heavier than he intended.
Eleanor’s lips parted slightly.
James forced himself to continue, because if he stopped he might say something reckless, something that admitted more than propriety allowed.
“You are my wife,” he said. “My duchess. Whether we share a bed or not is irrelevant to the public. You represent this title. You represent Ashbourne Hall. You represent Langford House. You represent me. And if you allow yourself to be seen performing labor that is beneath your station, you invite ridicule.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed with wounded pride. “I do not care if they ridicule me.”
“You will,” James said, voice hard. “You may think you do not care now, but you will when it limits your ability to do what you claim you want to do.”
“And what is it you think I want to do?” Eleanor demanded.
“To help your sister,” James said. “To manage this house. To survive your father and your half-sister’s malice. All of it requires standing. Standing requires appearance.”
Eleanor’s jaw tightened. “So I must sit prettily and do nothing?”
James’s gaze sharpened. “I did not say nothing.”
“Then tell me what to do,” she snapped.
He hesitated.
Because the truth was he did not yet know what he wanted her to do. He had wanted her visible. Controlled. Safe. He had not anticipated her restlessness, her need toact.
He had also not anticipated that he admired it.
James crossed back to the desk, picked up the penknife, and placed it in its proper position, a small act that steadied him.
“You will learn the estate,” he said finally. “You will learn the staff by name. You will learn which tenants require attention. You will learn the household accounts.”
Eleanor blinked. “You would allow me –”
“I wouldexpectyou,” James corrected. “But not by scrubbing floors and rearranging my papers.”
Her gaze held his. “Then what was I meant to do while you shut yourself away?”
James’s temper sparked again, because she was right.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low. “You are meant to behave like the Duchess of Langford.”
“And what does that mean?” she asked, equally low.
“It means,” he said, “you do not debase yourself for approval. You do not chase usefulness like a starving thing. You claim your place and make the household adjust around you.”
Eleanor stared at him, breathing shallowly.
James realized, too late, that he had stepped closer.
Too close.
