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

Chapter 9

The weeks that followed were unlike anything Eleanor had expected.

Alexander did not transform overnight. He remained reserved, quiet, often distant. But there were small changes — almost imperceptible at first, like cracks in a frozen river. He began joining her for breakfast instead of leaving before sunrise. He asked about her day, and she could see him trying to listen, to remember the details she shared. He left a book on her nightstand that he thought she might enjoy, and when she thanked him, he simply nodded and walked away — but she caught the faint shadow of a smile on his lips as he turned.

Eleanor began to find her place in the household. She redecorated the sitting room, replacing the stiff formal furniture with softer colors, warmer fabrics. She planted flowers in the garden, despite the lingering cold, pressing seeds into the dark earth with her own hands. She invited Mrs. Harding to stay as her personal companion, and the house began to feel less like a museum and more like a home.

One evening, Alexander found her in the library, reading one of Charlotte’s books of poetry.

“Did you know she wrote?” Eleanor asked without looking up.

He paused in the doorway. “She did?”

“Her journals are full of verse. She was quite talented.”

Alexander walked slowly into the room. He had never read Charlotte’s journals. He had been too afraid of what he might find — accusations, anger, the weight of his own failure pressed into ink.

“She wrote about you,” Eleanor said softly. “She loved you very much.”

He sat down across from her, his expression unreadable. “What else did she write?”

Eleanor turned the page. “She wrote that you used to take her riding in the countryside when she was young. That you taught her to read Latin. That you were the only person who never treated her like a fragile ornament.”

Alexander’s throat tightened. He had forgotten those things. He had buried them so deeply beneath the weight of his guilt that he had convinced himself they never mattered.

“She also wrote,” Eleanor continued gently, “that she was proud of you. And that she wished you would forgive yourself.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Alexander did not speak. But Eleanor saw his hands tremble slightly as he reached for the journal.

“I do not know how,” he said quietly.

Eleanor set the book down and looked at him. “Then let me help you.”

It was spring when Eleanor realized she was falling in love with her husband.

The realization came not in a dramatic moment, but in a quiet one. They were sitting in the garden — she had insisted on planting roses, and he had helped her, despite his protests that he knew nothing about gardening. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands covered in dirt, a smudge of soil across his cheek. He looked nothing like the cold, composed Duke of Ashworth she had met that winter. He looked human.

And Eleanor loved him.

The thought terrified her. Their marriage had been built on practicality, not emotion. He had never promised her love. He had explicitly told her not to expect it.

But she could not help what she felt.

She said nothing. She was too afraid of breaking the fragile trust they had built, too afraid of scaring him back behind the walls he had only just begun to lower. Instead, she continued as she had been — patient, gentle, present. She waited for him to come to her.

The first time Alexander kissed her — truly kissed her, not the ceremonial brush of lips at their wedding — happened on a rainy evening in late April.

They were standing in the doorway of the library, saying goodnight. The house was quiet. The rain tapped against the windows like soft fingers. And for some reason, neither of them moved to end the conversation.

“I found something today,” Eleanor said. “In Charlotte’s things.”

She pulled a small folded paper from her pocket. A sketch. Charlotte had drawn it years ago — a portrait of Alexander, young and smiling, with the kind of happiness that seemed foreign to the man he had become.

Alexander stared at the drawing. “I did not know she kept this.”

“She kept everything.” Eleanor handed it to him. “She wanted to remember you as you were.”

He took the sketch, his fingers tracing the faded lines. When he looked up, his eyes were bright with something he could not name.

“Eleanor,” he said.

And then he kissed her.

It was not the careful, restrained kiss of their wedding. It was desperate, hungry, full of years of loneliness and regret. His hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek as if she were something precious, something he was afraid to break.

Eleanor’s breath caught. She kissed him back, her heart pounding so hard she was certain he could feel it.

When they finally broke apart, Alexander rested his forehead against hers.

“I do not know if I can give you what you deserve,” he whispered.

“You already are,” she said.