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

Chapter 6

Three days after the wedding, the snow began to melt.

London streets turned gray and wet beneath carriage wheels, and the air carried the promise of rain instead of frost. Inside the Ashworth townhouse, however, nothing seemed to change. The Duke left the house early each morning, returned late, and though he always joined Eleanor for dinner, their conversations remained brief, polite, and carefully distant.

Exactly as the arrangement had been designed.

Yet Eleanor felt the silence pressing harder with each passing day.

She explored the house, trying to find purpose. She met with Mrs. Whitmore to discuss household management. She walked through the gardens, despite the cold. She sat in the library and read books that had belonged to Charlotte Blackwood, their pages still smelling of her perfume. But none of it filled the hollow space that had taken root in her chest.

She was safe. She was warm. She was fed.

She was unbearably lonely.

That evening, the candles burned low in the dining room when the Duke finally arrived. He removed his gloves slowly before taking his seat.

“You dined late tonight,” Eleanor observed.

“Business in Parliament,” he replied simply.

The servants poured wine. Eleanor watched him across the long table. “You work constantly.”

“It is expected of me.”

“And what is expected of me?” she asked quietly.

He looked up. “You manage the household.”

“I have done that.”

“You attend the dress fittings.”

“I have done that as well.” She folded her hands carefully in her lap. “And beyond that?”

He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Eleanor said softly, “what is my purpose here?”

The question lingered between them like smoke. The Duke set his fork down.

“You are the Duchess of Ashworth.”

“That is a title,” she replied. “Not an answer.”

A faint crease appeared between his brows. “You wished for security. I have given it.”

“Yes.” Her voice remained calm, but the words carried weight. “You have given me food, warmth, clothing, and a house larger than any I have ever known.” She looked directly at him. “But you have not given me a life.”

The Duke was silent.

Eleanor stood slowly from the table and walked toward the window. Rain had begun to fall softly against the glass, tracing silver paths down the dark pane.

“When you proposed,” she continued quietly, “you said I would never be cold or hungry again. Yes, you kept that promise.” She turned toward him. “But you never said anything about loneliness.”

The Duke stiffened. “I assumed you understood the nature of our agreement.”

“I did. Then why does it trouble you now?”

Eleanor hesitated. The truth felt far more dangerous than silence.

“Because,” she said finally, “I did not expect you to be quite so absent.”

He studied her carefully. “I dine with you every evening.”

“Yes, but you are never truly here.”

The words landed harder than she intended. For a moment, the Duke did not respond. Then he rose from his chair.

“You want honesty,” he said quietly. “I will give it.”

He walked toward the fireplace, staring into the flames.

“I married you because it was necessary.”

“I know.”

“I do not pretend affection where none exists.”

“I know that as well.”

His jaw tightened. “Then what exactly are you asking from me?”

Eleanor swallowed. She had not planned to say it aloud, yet the words escaped anyway.

“Attention.”

He turned sharply.

She held his gaze. “Not love. Not devotion. Simply acknowledgment that I exist beyond this arrangement.”

For a long moment, the room remained silent except for the soft crackle of fire and the whisper of rain against the glass. Then the Duke spoke quietly.

“You exist.”

“That is not the same as being seen.”

Her words struck deeper than she realized. Something flickered across his expression — a brief hesitation, almost regret. He walked slowly back toward the table.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I am not skilled at companionship.”

“That much is evident,” Eleanor said dryly.

To her surprise, the Duke almost smiled. It was faint, barely visible, a ghost of warmth that appeared and vanished in the same breath — but it was the first time she had seen anything resembling life in his face.

“You are remarkably bold for a duchess who has been married less than a week,” he said.

“And you are remarkably distant for a husband.”

Their eyes met across the candlelight. Something shifted. Small, fragile, but undeniable. And though neither of them spoke of it, Eleanor sensed the first tiny fracture forming in the armor the Duke of Ashworth had spent years building.