Her Family Sold Her to Pay Their Debts — Until the Ruthless Duke Whispered, “You’re My Destiny.”
Chapter 5
The weeks passed, and the rhythm of their life together began to change.
It happened slowly, almost imperceptibly, like the shift of seasons. The meals that had once been silent gradually filled with conversation. They discussed the estate — the harvest, the tenants, the repairs needed on the eastern wing. They debated politics, literature, philosophy. She argued with him about estate management, and he listened. He considered her opinions. He changed his mind when she made a compelling point.
The first time he conceded an argument, she nearly laughed.
“You are conceding?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“I am acknowledging that your reasoning is superior.” He said it without a trace of condescension. “Is that so difficult to believe?”
“It is unexpected.”
He tilted his head. “You will find, Eleanor, that I am not what you expect.”
She was discovering that more every day.
One afternoon, she found him in the conservatory, tending to his mother’s plants. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands covered in soil, and he looked more at ease than she had ever seen him.
“My mother taught me,” he said when he noticed her watching. “She believed that plants responded to kindness.”
“Do they?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve never risked being unkind to find out.”
She laughed, and he looked up, surprised. The sound seemed to please him.
“Will you show me?” she asked. “How to care for them?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Come.”
He showed her how to water the orchids without drowning them, how to trim the dead leaves from the roses, how to tell when the soil needed turning. His hands were gentle, patient, and she found herself watching them more than the plants.
“Why do you read Byron?” she asked one evening as they sat in the library.
He looked up from his book. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you wrote ‘Impossible’ in the margin of the love poem. I wondered what you meant.”
He was silent for a moment. “I meant that the kind of love Byron describes — the consuming, all-or-nothing passion — is impossible to sustain. It burns too brightly and extinguishes too quickly.”
“And what kind of love do you believe in?”
He met her eyes. “The kind that grows. Slowly. Like a garden. It requires patience, attention, and the willingness to wait for things to bloom.”
The words settled into her chest like seeds.
That night, Mrs. Thornton found her in the study, reviewing the household accounts. The housekeeper’s sharp eyes softened as she looked at Eleanor.
“Your grace,” she said, “I have been with the household for twenty-three years. I have served under three Duchesses of Blackwood, and I have never — ” She stopped, as if reconsidering her words.
“Never what?” Eleanor asked.
“Never seen his grace as he has been these past weeks.”
Eleanor set down her pen. “How has he been?”
“Lighter, your grace. The staff has noticed. We are all very glad.”
Eleanor did not know what to say to that. She simply nodded, and Mrs. Thornton curtsied and withdrew.
She thought about the housekeeper’s words as she prepared for bed. She stood before the connecting door, her hand hovering over the handle. She could hear movement on the other side — the soft thud of footsteps, the murmur of Alexander’s voice as he spoke to his valet.
She could knock. She could open the door. She could cross the threshold that had separated them since their wedding night.
But she did not.
Not yet.
She was not afraid of what she would find on the other side. She was afraid of what it would mean — that she was no longer content with the distance between them. That she wanted more.
She pulled her hand away and climbed into bed.
But she did not sleep.
And somewhere on the other side of the door, she heard him pause. She heard his footsteps stop just on the other side of the wood. She heard him stand there, as still as she was, as if he too was waiting for something.
The moment stretched. The door remained closed.
But they were both standing on either side of it, and that, she realized, was a beginning.