Eleanor was too full of nervous energy to think about resting. She changed her dress, changed her shoes, hoped her parasol wasn’t too tatty and set off. Basingstone was beautiful. Hundreds of acres of manicured gardens, fruit orchards, dense forests, and agriculture surrounded the manor, ringed in rolling green hills. She exclaimed at the sight of beautiful swans gliding across the glass-like surface of a lake, downy cygnets of smoky grey paddling furiously behind their regal-looking parents.
There was a hedge maze and meticulously maintained topiaries, great winged figures, and dragons amidst curving spires of intricately cut boxwoods. She strolled through the rose garden, not yet in bloom, through the endless aisles of greenery in the glassed-in orangery, coming out on a beautiful stone terrace at the rear of the main house. There was a grape arbor and a picturesque gazebo amidst a curious garden of flowers and vines that were tightly closed.Too early for them to bloom, no doubt. Far beyond the back of the house, she could hear the roar of the waves crashing against the base of the cliffs. It was a stunningly beautiful home, and that wasn’t even taking into consideration the loveliness of the manor house itself. The leaded glass windows cast rainbow prisms throughout every room, winking in the sunlight as she strolled up the gravel path from the rose garden.Far nicer than he deserves.
Inside, she found what was obviously a music room; a stunning grand piano, the centerpiece of the space, nestled into the alcove of hexagonal windows. She felt decadent sitting at the bench before the beautiful instrument, glancing guiltily up to the doorway every few moments.They didn’t tell you any room was off-limits. You don’t need to sneak about.
At the first depression of the keys, Eleanor shivered. It had been far too long since she played, even longer since she had sung, and she had a feeling her voice would be rough with lack of use. She worked through scales and arpeggios, warm-up exercises that had been drilled into her head at the conservatory, up and down, until she felt a little less out of practice. The first art song she warbled out would’ve had her covered in mucky tomatoes had she attempted to sing it on any Parisian stage, but by the third, she was feeling a bit like her old self.
She wondered if her new husband would care for music. Silas Stride had claimed to be a great fan of the fine arts, attending concerts and the theater and ballet, the opera, and smaller venues, like the ones she had performed in, where he had heard her sing. She could only hope that whoever he was, the new lord in her life would be similarly appreciative of the arts. She didn’t know if she could bear a life without music, even though she had been preparing herself for exactly that for some time. Selling the piano that had stood in their home since she was a child had nearly broken her. Lucy had sobbed the day it was taken away, begging Eleanor not to do it . . . but it had fetched a fine price, and she had reminded herself, as tears pricked at her eyes that afternoon the previous summer, that they couldn’t afford to be sentimental.
She closed her eyes, focusing on the piece she played through, every bit of fear and heartache and worry of the past several years coming out in the notes. The embarrassment of the past two weeks was the counterpoint, the grief still heavy in her heart the main melody, giving up all that she was and loved, a necessary task. When the last wavering note shivered through the room, she decided that was a fine way to say goodbye to something she loved so dearly. If her new husband did not care for music, Eleanor thought it would be better to never hear a single note of it again.
She hadn’t realized how rapidly the sun had gone in as she played, the entire afternoon spent exploring the grounds and sitting at this piano, reminding herself of who she used to be. It was nearly dusk, and he would be waking. Eleanor decided it would be prudent to dress for dinner, in preparation for his arrival.
Harden your heart. Harden your heart. You’re a plaything to him, don’t let him be more than that to you.Basingstone Manor was massive, but as the grandfather clock in the hallway ticked down to twilight, the walls pressed in on her, choking her, and eventually, she decided the best place to wait for him would be outdoors. That pretty gazebo, she thought. The sky was a wash of violet as she flitted up the stone pathway, curving around statuary and topiaries until she reached the glass-walled enclosure. She was about to pull open the door when she noticed the pathway curving around yet another statue just ahead, continuing beyond the point she could see.
Eleanor hesitated, slowly stepping away from the gazebo, deciding to follow the path a bit further. She was unprepared for the lovely stone edifice before her a short distance later. Rounded walls like a castle turret, the smooth gray exterior was punctuated with bright blues of color, stained glass all the way around the walls at varying intervals, all the way to the top. A chapel? She didn’t know anything about gargoyles or their culture, and she was surprised that Silas Stride would be a chapel-going sort, but there was little doubt that that was exactly what this building was. Come back tomorrow and explore. She’d only just turned away from the intriguing arched doorway, about to head back up her path, when an unexpected sound froze her in her steps.
Footsteps, she realized. Footsteps thudded down a circular stone staircase, coming from within the building before her. Her eyes darted around like a frightened rabbit, quickly assessing where she could go, where she could hide, wondering if she could make it back to the gazebo before they made it to the bottom of the staircase, but she miscalculated the sound of the footsteps, confusing their echo for thinking they were higher up. As she struggled in place, frozen in indecision, he appeared. A shock of white hair tumbled into his face, sharp blue eyes narrowing at the sight of her. Recognition bloomed on his face a heartbeat later, his eyebrows shooting up as she melted in a puddle of embarrassment.
He wore a deep, rich royal blue Banyan, the heavy lapels embroidered in silver, knotted casually at the waist. He was barefoot, and his legs were bare. A slow smile spread across Silas Stride’s imminently punchable face, and she realized in horror that the deep the of his collar showed off a swath of his bare chest. The Banyan was all he wore, a single layer of luxurious fabric separating her from his bare cock, the simple tug at the tie at his waist leaving him completely vulnerable to her eyes.
“Miss Eastwick. Fancy meeting you here at twilight.”
Fury bloomed in her veins at the amusement laced his words. He was not the vulnerable one, she realized. She was, as always. Vulnerable to the appreciation of men like Silas Stride, arrogant lords the rest of them were beholden to. She was meant to stay calm, to remind herself that she would have the upper hand for the duration of her stay at Basingstone and that when she left, she would never need to see his smug smile again, but common sense left her in that moment, and instead, she seethed. She felt flushed, but the look she cast upon him was one of ice.
“It was good of you to provide your carriage for me, Lord Stride. I am eager to resume our lessons.”
His fangs glinted in the moonlight. “As am I, Miss Eastwick.”
“I am eager to resume our lessons,” she pushed on, cutting him off, “for the sooner we resume them, the sooner they shall be done, and I’ll be leaving for the ball to meet my new husband.”
His smile faltered, a shot of victory up her spine.Good. Let him feel the fool for a change. “But of course,” he went on, recovering quickly. “I am sure thoughts of your upcoming matrimony were all you could think of on your journey north.”
His hand dropped to her lower back as they continued up the pathway, in the direction of the house.Steady breath. He’s a scoundrel and a sneak, and we don’t care about him at all.
“Have you already dined, Miss Eastwick?”
Eleanor gave him a beatific smile. “I have not, my lord. I thought it proper to wait for you.”Don’t let him think anything is wrong. Remember, you’re in control.
“Splendid, my dear. I daresay it’s not too late to turn your arrival festivity into something worthwhile.
She was unsurprised when dinner led to dancing, a quartet of elegantly attired moth people setting up their instruments on the far end of the ballroom, well away from the area where they would be gliding around the floor. She noticed that most of the evening staff appeared to be moth-folk, with feathery antennae, large, graceful wings, and a trail of curious iridescent dust trailing behind many of them, quickly swept away by an exhausted-looking young girl. Eleanor wondered how many of them were related to the mothwoman from London.
Being in his arms again, her body pressed to him as they waltzed – something fluttered within her, butterfly wings once more, although she had no intention of letting them fly out of control and obliterate her good sense this time.Thistime,shewas in control.
“After dancing at the ball, will we have the opportunity to be alone with our suitors?” She kept her voice light as possible, with a flirtatious air and coy smile, allowing his hand to slip a bit lower on her hip as they turned.
“Oh, indeed. Slipping off is de rigueur. Although, I do believe the done thing is to slip offamidstthe dancing, actually. Hold each other close, whet the appetite, and then find a quiet corner to . . . become better acquainted with each other.”
“Is that our cue to leave then, Lord Stride? To become better acquainted?”
His throat rumbled in a growl, a sound for her ears only, and as they turned around the room, at the furthest point away from the musicians, once she was confident they not be seen, Eleanor let a sneaky hand skate down his chest, finding the bulge at the front of his snug breeches easily, and giving it a squeeze.There’s no sense in pretending there’s anything left to do.
“I do believe I’ve had enough dancing this evening, yes. Perhaps we can take a stroll through the gardens, Miss Eastwick. I ought to let you retire a bit early this evening. No doubt your travel was arduous, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company a bit first. I do fear your chaperone is likely already abed.”
Eleanor shrugged, giving him a practiced grin. “I suppose I’ll simply have to rely on you to be a gentleman, my lord. It’s a relief that we are strolling at night. One does hear such tales of butterflies dipping their tongues into every flower they find out on the lawn.”
Another growl as he took her by the arm, a signal to the musicians, and then they were exiting the ballroom, moving through the conservatory and out the glass doors that led to the same stone pathway.
