Abandoned by Her Fiancé, She Married a Feared Duke… Then Learned Why He Chose Her

Chapter 5

The Duke of Ashworth’s London residence did not feel like a home. It felt like a monument.

Marble floors reflected the light of enormous chandeliers. Tall portraits of Blackwood ancestors stared down from the walls with quiet authority. Every piece of furniture stood in perfect order, untouched by the careless warmth of daily life. The air was still, smelling of beeswax and old wood, and the silence was so complete that Eleanor’s footsteps seemed to echo for an uncomfortably long time.

She felt like an intruder walking through a museum.

Mr. Graves, the Duke’s butler, led her up the sweeping staircase with silent efficiency. “Your rooms, Your Grace,” he said, opening a double door.

“Rooms?”

“Plural, Your Grace.”

The suite contained a sitting room, a dressing chamber, and a bedchamber larger than the entire upper floor of her father’s house. A fire burned warmly in the hearth. For the first time in days, Eleanor felt genuine heat in her bones. The flames crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows across the walls, and she found herself staring at them with an almost desperate gratitude.

“You will dine with His Grace at seven,” Mr. Graves continued politely. “Until then, the household is entirely at your disposal.”

He bowed slightly and withdrew. The door closed.

Eleanor stood alone.

She walked slowly toward the tall windows overlooking Mayfair. Carriages rolled through the street below. Ladies in velvet cloaks hurried past shops glowing with lamplight. London carried on as if nothing had changed. Yet her entire life had turned on a single decision.

A knock sounded softly. The door opened before she could answer.

A woman in her forties entered — brisk, composed, dressed in impeccable gray. “Mrs. Whitmore,” she introduced herself. “Housekeeper to His Grace.” Her gaze swept over Eleanor with professional efficiency. “We must prepare your wardrobe immediately.”

“My wardrobe?”

“You cannot appear in society dressed in mourning forever,” Mrs. Whitmore replied matter-of-factly.

Eleanor almost laughed. Society. Only three days ago, society had been whispering about her father’s debts. Now those same drawing rooms would bow to her. The transformation felt unreal, like a dream she was afraid to wake from.

Dinner that evening was served in a smaller dining room, lit by dozens of candles that cast a warm, golden glow across the table. The Duke of Ashworth stood by the fireplace when she entered. He turned when he heard her footsteps.

For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze moved over her dark green dress — one of the new gowns Mrs. Whitmore had insisted she wear. The silk rustled softly as she moved, and Eleanor felt suddenly self-conscious, as if she were wearing a costume for a role she had not yet learned.

“Appropriate,” he said at last.

Eleanor took her seat at the long table. “That is not quite a compliment.”

“It is not meant to be.”

Servants appeared silently with the first course. For several minutes, they ate in complete silence. Eleanor could not bear it.

“Your Grace,” she said finally. “May I ask you something?”

He glanced up from his plate. “You may.”

“You chose me because I had no expectations.”

“Yes.”

“And because I was convenient.”

“Yes.”

The bluntness stung, but she pressed on. “But there was something else, was there not?”

The Duke did not answer immediately. Instead, he poured wine slowly into his glass, watching the dark liquid rise. “What makes you believe that?”

“Because a man like you does nothing without a reason.”

The candlelight flickered between them. At last, he spoke.

“My sister once told me something.”

Eleanor waited.

He looked toward the far wall. A portrait hung there — a young woman with soft golden hair and gentle eyes. The same eyes as the Duke, Eleanor realized. The same shape, the same intensity, softened by a warmth that seemed entirely absent from her husband.

“She said loneliness can destroy a person faster than poverty.”

Eleanor followed his gaze. “Your sister?”

“Charlotte. She died three years ago.”

Something tightened in Eleanor’s chest. “I am sorry.”

The Duke shrugged slightly. “Fever.” But his eyes lingered on the portrait longer than necessary. “She hated this house,” he added quietly.

“Why?”

“Because it was empty.”

The words seemed to surprise even him. Eleanor studied him carefully. “You brought me here to fill it.”

He met her eyes again. “No.” His answer was immediate. “I brought you here because it was practical.”

A lie. She could feel it. But she did not press further.

Instead, she asked softly, “Then why do you keep her portrait in the dining room?”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the painting. “For the same reason I married you.”

“And what reason is that?”

His eyes sharpened slightly. “To remind myself what happens when I allow sentiment to influence my decisions.”

The words were cold, but Eleanor noticed something else. His hand had tightened around the wine glass, the tendons standing out beneath his skin, as though the memory still hurt. And for the first time since their marriage, she wondered whether the feared Duke of Ashworth was not heartless after all — but merely a man who had buried something very human, very deep, and convinced himself it had died.