There were embraces in the entrance hall, Frances’s hands warm on Eleanor’s cheeks as she kissed her farewell. There was a last, quick instruction to the housekeeper about a parcel to be forwarded, and a final, pointed glance at James that Eleanor could not quite interpret.
“Do not brood,” Frances told him, as if she were speaking to a boy rather than a duke. “It is unbecoming.”
James’s mouth tightened. “Safe travels, Aunt Frances.”
“And you, my dear,” Frances replied, smoothing the sleeve of Eleanor’s pelisse with maternal satisfaction, “behave as though you belong here. Because you do.”
Eleanor managed a smile. “I shall.”
Frances stepped into her carriage, the footman shutting the door with a decisive click. The horses moved off, wheels crunching over the gravel until the sound faded into the winter air.
Eleanor lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, watching the drive empty. She felt the absence immediately. The house seemed to settle in on itself, quieter, more watchful.
James did not linger. He offered Eleanor a brief nod and turned back toward the interior, already shifting into the manner of a man who preferred the world to be arranged and predictable.
Which, Eleanor thought, was precisely why Frances had been such a relief.
She turned from the door and stepped back into Blackmere Park.
The afternoon had barely begun when Graham approached her in the morning room, his expression careful.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “Lord St. George. Miss Barker. And a Miss Barker.”
Eleanor’s spine stiffened at once.
It was not that she had not expected them. In truth, she had been waiting for the moment her family remembered she existed. Norman Barker would not allow a duchess to sit comfortablyin peace without reminding her whose blood she carried, whose roof she had once lived beneath, and whose authority had shaped her life.
Still, expectation did not make it pleasant.
Eleanor’s thoughts leapt instantly to Arabella.
She rose. “Show them into the drawing room in just a moment.”
Graham bowed again and withdrew.
Eleanor took a steadying breath. She did not rush to the drawing room. And when she arrived, she sat where she was, composed, her hands folded in her lap, and her chin slightly lifted.
A duchess, she reminded herself.
If her father wished to make her feel small again, he would have to try much harder than he once did.
The footsteps reached her first.
A moment later, they entered with Graham.
Norman came first, as he always did, his gaze sweeping the room with proprietary familiarity as though he had stepped into his own drawing room rather than the Duke of Langford’s home.He wore a dark coat, gloves in hand, his posture stiff with self-importance.
Charlotte followed, dressed too finely for a simple afternoon call, her gown trimmed and flattering, her bonnet arranged in a way that made her look delicate and expensive. She held herself like a prize.
Arabella came last, her cheeks pink from the cold. Her dress was modest, neat, and very clearly not new. Yet she looked at Eleanor with genuine warmth, her eyes brightening as if she had been holding her breath since the wedding.
“Eleanor,” Arabella said softly.
Eleanor smiled at once, standing to greet her sister, who crossed the room eagerly. She took Arabella’s hands in hers before Charlotte could wedge herself between them.
“Arabella,” she murmured, squeezing gently. “I have missed you.”
Arabella’s throat worked. “I have missed you as well.”
