Yet the satisfaction he had anticipated—the relief of a difficulty resolved—refused to materialise. Instead, he found himself replaying their conversation with uncomfortable precision.
He had been practical. Direct. Efficient. He had outlined the terms of their arrangement with the clarity he might have applied to a business contract, and she had responded in kind, asking sensible questions regarding expectations and appearances and heirs.
Heirs.
His hand tightened upon the windowsill. He had told her he would not hurry her, and he had meant it. But he had not told her why the thought of such intimacy caused his stomach to tighten with something perilously close to fear.
He had not told her about the nightmares. About the manner in which his scars ached when he was anxious. About the years he had spent persuading himself that he was better alone because, alone, he could not harm anyone.
He had not told her that he fed stray cats because they expected nothing from him, and that expectation—the simple, reliable certainty that he could not disappoint a creature that desired only food—was sometimes the only thing that rendered the day bearable.
He had not asked what she wanted.
The realisation struck him with uncomfortable force. He had catalogued her qualifications like entries upon a ledger—intelligent, composed, practical—but he had not once asked what she desired from a marriage. What she hoped for. What she might wish for herself, beyond security and household management.
He had offered her a transaction, and she had accepted it, and neither of them had pretended it was anything more.
Because it is not,he told himself.It cannot be. You are not capable of offering more. You know this.
Yet another part of his mind—the part that had noticed the catch in her breath when he explained his reasons, the part that had seen the flicker of something in her grey eyes that might have been hope—whispered that he was deceiving himself.
She did not look away.
It had been the truth. It had also been an understatement of staggering proportions.
She had looked at him—truly looked, without flinching or pity or the carefully averted gaze—and for one disorientingmoment, he had felt like something other than a monster pretending to be a man.
Do not make this into something it is not,he commanded himself.She accepted a practical proposal. She expects a practical marriage. Give her what you promised, and nothing more.
But as the moon climbed higher and the house settled into sleep around him, Benjamin found himself thinking of grey eyes and Italian poetry and the way a woman had stood alone by a window, absorbing cruelty with the quiet dignity of someone who had learnt, long ago, that the world would offer her nothing kinder.
I did not ask what she wanted.
The thought refused to leave him.
Perhaps,whispered something dangerous in the recesses of his mind,you should.
Chapter Five
One Week Later,
Lady Rutledge’s House
“You look well, Miss Finch.”
The maid—borrowed from Lady Rutledge’s household, since Eleanor possessed no maid of her own—spoke the words with the careful neutrality of a servant who had learnt not to express opinions. It was neither compliment nor criticism, merely observation, and Eleanor appreciated it more than the girl could possibly know.
“Thank you,” she said, and turned back to the mirror.
The reflection that greeted her was… adequate. Her gown was borrowed—a pale blue morning dress that Honoria had declared “perfectly suitable” in tones suggesting it was anything but. Her hair had been arranged simply, without the elaborate curls fashion demanded, because there was no one to arrange it elaborately, and Eleanor had never mastered the art herself.
Lady Rutledge had insisted—rather triumphantly—upon hosting the ceremony, declaring that a match formed beneath her roof ought properly to be solemnised there, and that Thornwood lay far too distant to impose such travel upon the company. Eleanor suspected the declaration had been received with admiration in society, though she herself had merely beengrateful to avoid organising a wedding she scarcely felt present enough to inhabit.
“Will there be anything else, miss?” the maid asked.
“No. Thank you. You may go.”
The girl curtsied and withdrew, leaving Eleanor alone with her reflection and the silence of a room that felt too large for one person.
