Her Family Sold Her to Pay Their Debts — Until the Ruthless Duke Whispered, “You’re My Destiny.”

Chapter 6

It was the fourth week of their marriage when Alexander showed her the conservatory.

He had led her through a part of the Manor she had not yet explored — a narrow corridor in the eastern wing, past a door that had been hidden behind a tapestry. The conservatory was small, intimate, filled with plants she had never seen before. Moonlight streamed through the glass roof, casting silver patterns on the stone floor.

“My mother’s garden,” he said quietly.

Eleanor turned, looking at the carefully tended plants, the blooming flowers, the peaceful stillness of the space. “She died when you were young.”

“Twelve.” He stood in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “This was her sanctuary. She would spend hours here, reading, planting, talking to the flowers as if they could answer.”

“You maintain it for her.”

“I maintain it because I remember her here.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was rougher. “I remember her laughing.”

Eleanor’s heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. She crossed the room and stood beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence.

“She would be proud of you,” she said softly.

He turned to look at her. “You do not know that.”

“I know that you are a good man, Alexander. I know that you carry the weight of this estate and the people who depend on it. I know that you have been kind to me when you could have been cruel.” She met his eyes. “She would be proud.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then his hand rose, slowly, as if giving her time to pull away. His fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light, and she did not move.

“Eleanor,” he breathed.

“Alexander.”

He leaned down and kissed her.

It was soft, tentative, a question rather than a demand. His lips were warm against hers, his hand gentle against her face. She felt the world tilt, the ground shifting beneath her feet, and she reached out to steady herself against his chest.

He drew back, his forehead resting against hers. “I love you,” he said.

The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples through her entire being.

“You cannot love me,” she whispered. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.” He cupped her face in both hands. “I know that you are brave. I know that you are kind. I know that you see me — not the Duke, not the title, but the man beneath. And I know that I have been falling in love with you since the moment you asked me why I stayed away.”

Eleanor felt tears prick her eyes. “I was so afraid,” she confessed. “I thought you would be cruel. I thought you would — ”

“I know.” He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “I know what they say about me. I know what the world believes. But I am not the man they think I am. Not with you.”

She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him — sandalwood, paper, the faint trace of cigar smoke. “I love you too,” she whispered into the fabric of his coat. “I think I have loved you since the night you told me I had a choice.”

He held her tighter, and the door between them — the one that had been closed for so long — finally, finally, began to open.