It was, Eleanor realised, the most consideration anyone had ever shown her regarding her own body and its uses.
“Would I be required to appear in society often?” she asked.
“No. I myself prefer solitude. The estate is remote, and I have no intention of returning to London more than strictly necessary.”
“And my family? My relatives?”
“You may see them as often or as seldom as you wish. I have no interest in controlling your associations.”
Eleanor considered this. Question by question, he was sketching the outline of a marriage that was… not unpleasant. Not what she had ever imagined, certainly—not the union of souls romantic novels promised—but neither the gilded cage her mother had endured.
He is offering freedom,she thought.Within limits. Within duty. But freedom nonetheless.
And what is the alternative? More years in the Cheswick household, translating correspondence and performing drawing-room amusements until you are too old to be of use?
At least this would be your own invisibility. Your own household. Your own quiet obscurity, rather than a borrowed one.
“I should tell you something,” she said, before she could lose her nerve.
He waited.
He had offered her terms. Circumstances. Expectations. All with admirable clarity. Yet he had not asked what she liked, orfeared, or preferred—and she found, suddenly and irrationally, that she wished him to leave this conversation knowing at least one small truth about her. Something that belonged to herself alone.
She searched for it—and discovered, with faint unease, that she possessed very little practice in offering herself as anything other than useful.
“I have a fear of cats,” she said at last, the admission emerging with more haste than grace. “It is a childish thing, I know. But I have never been comfortable in their presence. If there are many upon the estate—”
His expression shifted. Just for an instant, so swiftly she might have imagined it, something crossed his face that might have been surprise, or dismay, or simple acknowledgement.
“There are… none within the house,” he said.
It was not, she noticed, a denial that cats existed upon the property. It was a careful distinction—within the house, rather than elsewhere—that suggested there was more to the matter than he chose to reveal.
But he had not lied to her. He had offered a truth, even if it was not the whole of it, and that was more candour than most men would have extended.
She drew a steadying breath.
“Then I accept,” Eleanor said.
The words fell into the silence like stones dropped into deep water. She watched his face for some reaction—relief, perhaps, or the quiet satisfaction of a task completed—but found none. His expression remained carefully neutral, betraying nothing.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall set the necessary arrangements in motion. We may marry within the month, if that is agreeable.”
“Within the month.” She repeated it numbly. Four weeks to transform from spinster companion to duchess. Four weeks to leave behind everything she knew—meagre as it was—and step into a life she could scarcely imagine.
“Unless you require more time.”
“No.” The word came quickly, instinctively. More time would invite more doubt. More doubt would invite more fear. And Eleanor had learnt, long ago, that hesitation was a luxury she could not afford. “Within the month will suffice.”
He inclined his head. Then, after a pause that stretched just a fraction too long: “Thank you, Miss Finch.”
Thank you.As though she had done him a kindness. As though her acceptance were a gift rather than a transaction.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied, and the words tasted strange upon her tongue.
He turned to leave, and something compelled her to speak again before she could prevent it.
“Your Grace.”
