Eleanor frowned at the ledger in her hands, angling it toward the lamplight to better examine the figures. The estate accounts for the northern farms had never balanced satisfactorily, and she had spent much of the evening attempting to trace the discrepancy.
Across the library, Benjamin looked up from his own sheaf of documents. “What have you discovered?”
“Either the former steward possessed no talent for arithmetic, or someone has been systematically underreporting the wool yields for the better part of a decade.” She turned the ledger toward him, indicating a column of figures. “These totals do not correspond with the shipping records I translated last week. The difference is… considerable.”
He rose and crossed to where she sat, his uneven gait softened by the thick carpet. The fire had burned low during the hours they had worked, casting the room in warm shadows that lent it an unexpected intimacy.
Eleanor had not intended to spend the evening in the library. She had come only to retrieve a reference volume, had found Benjamin already occupied with estate papers, had mentioned the discrepancy in passing. Somehow—she could not quite determine when—passing mention had become shared investigation, and shared investigation had become hours ofcollaborative labour, the two of them moving between ledgers and manifests with the ease of long habit.
It felt comfortable.
It felt right.
It felt dangerous, in ways she preferred not to examine too closely.
“Show me,” Benjamin said, taking the chair beside hers.
He sat nearer than he ordinarily allowed himself, his shoulder almost brushing hers as he leaned forward to study the ledger. Eleanor became acutely aware of the faint scent of sandalwood and paper, of the warmth of his presence, of the quiet cadence of his breathing.
She forced her attention back to the numbers.
“Here,” she said, indicating a line of entries. “The recorded yields for 1811. And here—” She reached for the shipping manifest at her elbow. “The quantities actually delivered to market. The difference approaches two hundred pounds of wool.”
“Two hundred pounds.” His tone remained thoughtful. “Each year?”
“Each year for at least the past eight. Earlier records are… unreliable.” She drew another ledger closer. “I suspect the previous steward was either incompetent or dishonest. Possibly both.”
“The former steward withdrew from the position three years ago,” Benjamin said slowly. “His successor was recommended to me by an old family acquaintance, and I accepted the arrangement with little scrutiny.” Benjamin’s brow furrowed. “I ought to have investigated more thoroughly.”
“You had other concerns.”
“That is not an excuse.”
“No,” Eleanor said quietly. “But it is an explanation. And explanations retain value, even when they do not absolve.”
He turned toward her then, his dark eyes catching the firelight in a manner that unsettled her breath. They sat very close—close enough that she could discern the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle pull of scar tissue along his cheek, details that had become, over recent weeks, unexpectedly familiar.
“You are remarkably charitable,” he said.
“I am remarkably practical.” She lowered her gaze to the ledger, willing her pulse to steady. “Recrimination rarely improves accounts. Solutions generally do.”
“And your proposed solution?”
“A complete audit of the northern farms, conducted by someone unconnected with the previous administration. Revised record-keeping procedures, with regular comparison against verified yields.” She paused. “It will require time—months, perhaps longer. But if the discrepancy proves asconsistent as it appears, the estate has suffered considerable losses. Recovering even part of it would justify the effort.”
Benjamin fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice held a curious softness.
“You speak of this estate as though it were yours.”
Eleanor stilled.
He was correct. Somewhere in recent weeks, she had ceased thinking of Thornwood as solely his and begun to think of it—quietly, almost without noticing—as home. The tenants, the household, the gardens and rooms and books—they had become hers in a manner nothing had ever been hers before.
“Forgive me,” she said carefully. “I did not intend to presume—”
“Do not apologise.” He reached forward, and for a breathless instant she thought he meant to touch her—but his hand settled instead upon the ledger between them, his scarred fingers spread across the page. “It is not presumption. It is precisely what I hoped for when I asked you to marry me.”
“You hoped I would uncover accounting irregularities?”
