After all, Eleanor possessed a fortune of her own — what their parents had left her, what Julien had added through careful investment, what had quietly accumulated while she managed his household and surrendered the years in which other women secured husbands. It would be more than sufficient to restore any estate to comfort.
The thought did not bring him satisfaction. It stirred a cold, steady anger. Eleanor was not a solution. She was not a convenient answer to another man’s difficulties. She deserved tobe courted solely for herself, for all that she was and not all that she had.
If Marklynne meant to marry her for practical reasons, she deserved the dignity of choosing to accept or refuse with open eyes. And if Adrian meant to ask her to risk her heart instead, he must offer her something more than stolen kisses in dark corridors and belated declarations.
He rose, set aside his untouched glass, and stepped out into the pale light of late morning.
What he’d witnessed at the theatre had put him on edge, but the kiss that had taken place in the darkened corridors of Harcourt House had made him certain. With all that he’d since learned, it was time to bring the farce to a close.
Chapter
Fifteen
Lord Marklynne was shown into the drawing room shortly after eleven. It was a moment Eleanor had dreaded. After all, her decision—for better or ill—had been made the previous night when she’d stepped so eagerly into Adrian’s arms. When the thought of protesting his kiss had never entered her mind at all. Now it was time to face the proverbial music and inform his lordship that their agreement, their trial courtship, would have to come to and end.
He walked with a sort of confidence that bordered on arrogance and seemed markedly contradictory to her initial assessment of him. In fact, Eleanor had the distinct impression that he entered not as a suitor uncertain of his welcome, but as a man inspecting something he already considered secured. His bow was precise, his expression composed, though there lingered about him a faint tension she had not observed before. It was not anger. Not quite. Something closer to irritation carefully restrained, as though the morning had not unfolded according to his expectations.
“I trust this morning finds you well, Miss Harcourt,” he said as he took a seat opposite her.
“I am perfectly well,” she replied evenly. “And you, my lord?”
“Quite. Though I confess I have had a somewhat tedious morning. My aunt, Lady Lyndehurst, has been most insistent upon discussing my future,” he observed rather blandly.
Sh had been on the verge of suggesting she ring for tea. But after hearing his statement, she chose not to do so. Whatever occurred in the next few moments would determine just how welcome Lord Marklynne was as a caller in their home. “Lady Lyndehurst is very devoted to your interests, I gather?”
“She is devoted to appearances,” he corrected mildly and with a small sniff of disapproval. “She believes I ought to marry in a manner that reflects vitality.”
“Vitality,” Eleanor repeated. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse and he was entirely oblivious to it.
He continued on blithely, unaware of the rancor his previous statement had incited. “She has taken a particular liking to Miss Langford. Youthful. Animated. A certain brightness that attracts notice in crowded rooms. Lady Lyndehurst finds such qualities advantageous.”
“I see,” Eleanor said, her tone deceptively calm. “And do you? Find such qualities advantageous, that is.”
He regarded her as though the answer were self-evident. “I prefer efficiency to ornamentation. And you are a very efficient woman, Miss Harcourt.”
The words settled between them with the quiet finality of something placed deliberately upon a table and left there. They were not spoken unkindly, nor with conscious cruelty. Yet there was no mistaking the shape of them, the insult buried within their placid depths. Eleanor felt the faintest tightening beneath her ribs, not sharp enough to wound, but enough to remind her how neatly she had been sorted.
“Efficient,” she repeated.
“In the best sense, of course,” he assured her. “Reliable. Composed. Entirely sensible. Those are qualities one builds astable household upon. Pretty young girls with lively manners are delightful in company, but such things are fleeting. One cannot expect that sort of animation and vivacity to reside in the same person as steadiness, dependability, composure... There is generally a trade in such matters.”
“A trade,” Eleanor echoed softly. She could only parrot the obsurd nonsense he spouted.
“Yes,” he reiterated, supremely confident in his assessment of both her and Miss Langford. “One must decide what is essential and what is merely decorative.”
He spoke as though discussing the merits of a carriage design. As though temperament were a matter to be balanced in tidy columns, like account ledgers for wages and payments to the butcher. Miss Langford possessed youth and sparkle; Eleanor, steadiness and utility. The contrast required no further explanation though she felt compelled to question him further.
“And you have decided I am essential,” she surmised. “And not decorative.”
“Precisely.” He inclined his head in recognition of her ability to comprehend the situation, as if he were somewhat surprised by her degree of intellect despite having complimented several times already. “Lady Lyndehurst believes I sacrifice display. I believe I gain dependability. It is a far wiser exchange.”
For a moment Eleanor sat very still. She thought of the terrace, of warmth and breath and the way the world had narrowed to one pair of eyes and the promise of something unnamed. Then she looked at the man before her and saw, with sudden clarity, the life he offered: orderly, respectable, sensible — and entirely without color. A world where every day would become more and more colorless, a thing to be endured rather than embraced.
“And rejection?” she asked lightly. “Is that also part of your calculations?”
He looked faintly puzzled. “Rejection?”
She spoke slowly. Deliberately. Two could play at the game of insulting the other’s intelligence. “In this trial arrangement of ours. You spoke of a month to determine suitability. At the conclusion of it, one of us might decline.”
