Sixteen
Adrian had faced any number of hardships in life from being orphaned early on to suffering the cold indifference of his relations. Even the potential for financial ruin, and the quiet humiliation of being the heir to a penniless younger son with no prospects, yet none of those trials unsettled him as profoundly as the short walk from the pavement to the Harcourt front door. The small velvet case in his pocket felt impossibly heavy, as though it contained not a ring but the sum of every decision he had postponed. He had told himself all morning that he would proceed plainly and accept whatever answer she gave. It was a sensible plan. He had never felt less sensible in his life.
When he was shown into the drawing room, Eleanor rose from her seat near the window. Sunlight touched the dark gloss of her hair and caught in the soft folds of her gown, and for one disorienting instant he could think only that he had nearly lost this view forever. She looked composed, as she always did, though there was a brightness in her eyes that suggested sleeplessness rather than serenity.
“Adrian.”
“Eleanor.”
They stood facing one another longer than politeness required. He had meant to speak immediately, to say what he had rehearsed a dozen times on his walk across the square, but the words refused to come. It was she who broke the silence.
“You have come early Julien is not at home.”
“It is not Julian I am here to see. It is you… on a most pressing matter. I thought it best not to delay.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Delay rarely improves matters.”
She motioned for him to sit. He did so, acutely aware of the velvet case pressing against his ribs like an accusation.
“I have something to tell you,” she began at last, her hands folding together in her lap with a composure that looked practiced rather than natural. “It concerns Lord Marklynne.”
Hope stirred in Adrian despite himself.
“He is, by any reasonable measure, an excellent match,” she continued. “He possesses title, property, and a lineage that will satisfy even the most exacting of society’s expectations. His estate requires restoration, certainly, but there is dignity in that sort of purpose — in rebuilding something that has endured for generations. A marriage to him would not merely secure my own future; it would restore a legacy and provide an elevated status for my brother in society.”
The careful steadiness of her voice made it worse.
“He is orderly in his habits and deliberate in his judgments. There is no volatility in him, no impulsive decisions that must later be repaired. He speaks plainly, conducts himself with propriety, and approaches the question of marriage as one might approach any other serious undertaking — with clarity, forethought, and restraint. One could rely upon him. One would always know where one stood.” She enumerated the man’s strong suits like she was reading a list of items to get at market.
Adrian’s fingers tightened against the arm of the chair.
“He does not gamble, he does not drink to excess, and he is not governed by whims of temper or passion. His expectations are sensible, his standards consistent. In a household governed by such principles, there would be stability. Order. Predictability. No unpleasant surprises to unsettle the peace of daily life.”
No warmth, either, Adrian thought, though he remained silent.
She lifted her gaze briefly, as if to measure whether he understood.
“And such a match would free Julien to consider his own future without concern for mine,” she went on more quietly. “He would never say so, of course, but I cannot pretend my continued presence does not shape the choices available to him. Marriage to Lord Marklynne would resolve that difficulty entirely.”
The words settled heavily between them.
“He believes affection may grow where respect exists,” she added after a moment. “He places little faith in romantic notions, but he values companionship, mutual regard, and the efficient management of a shared life. He considers such things a sound foundation.”
“That is certainly a practical view. Dull and wrong-headed—or perhaps wrong-hearted— but practical,” Adrian said, though the dryness in his throat made the words feel brittle.
“Yes,” she replied. “It is.”
Silence gathered, thick with everything neither of them wished to name.
“And there is comfort,” she said at last, her voice softer now, “in the knowledge that such a life would be safe. Free from uncertainty. Free from the risks that accompany… deeper feeling.”
Adrian’s pulse beat hard enough that he felt it in his jaw. He had come prepared to fight for her, to lay his heart bare and accept whatever wreckage followed. He had not prepared himself to be politely, methodically dismantled by a list of sensible truths.
“I hope,” he said at last, because he could find nothing else that did not sound like pleading, “that he will make you content. I am too selfish to hope he makes you happy. Happiness might prevent you from regretting that choice from time to time and wondering if you might have had more with me.”
She did not answer immediately. Instead she studied him with an expression he could not name — something searching, something almost tender.
“I sent him away,” she said.
