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

Chapter 7

The night after the conservatory, Eleanor dreamed of the closed door.

In her dream, she stood before it, her hand raised to knock. But the wood had become a mirror, and her reflection stared back at her with eyes that were not her own. They were gray — Alexander’s gray — and they were filled with a longing that matched her own.

She woke with a start.

The room was dark. The fire had burned down to embers. And the connecting door — she stared at it, her heart pounding — was slightly ajar.

She sat up, her breath catching. A sliver of candlelight seeped through the crack, casting a thin line of gold across her floor. He was awake. He was on the other side. And the door, for the first time since their wedding night, was not fully closed.

She rose from the bed, her bare feet silent against the cold floor. She crossed the room, her heart hammering so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She reached the door and pushed it gently.

It swung open.

Alexander stood on the other side, still dressed in his shirtsleeves, his dark hair disheveled. He looked as surprised as she felt, as if he had not intended for the door to open but had somehow willed it to anyway.

“Eleanor,” he said. “I — ”

She did not let him finish.

She crossed the threshold and kissed him.

This kiss was not tentative. It was not a question. It was an answer, a declaration, a surrender. She felt his arms come around her, pulling her close, and she felt the door swing shut behind her, closing them both in the same room for the first time.

“I love you,” she said against his lips.

“I love you, Eleanor.” His voice was rough, raw. “I have loved you since the moment you walked into that drawing room and refused to be frightened.”

She laughed, a soft, breathless sound. “I was terrified.”

“You hid it well.”

“I had to. You were watching.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she felt the weeks of distance and restraint melt away. He lifted her easily, carrying her toward his bed, and she did not resist. She did not want to resist.

He set her down gently, his hands cradling her face as if she were something precious. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I have never been more sure of anything.”

He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her lips. “Then I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that you made the right choice.”

She pulled him down to her, and the night that followed was a conversation of touch and breath and whispered promises. The closed door had finally opened, and what lay on the other side was not the cold, transactional marriage she had feared. It was warmth. It was passion. It was the beginning of something real.

When she woke the next morning, she was in his arms. The sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting golden patterns across the sheets. He was still asleep, his face relaxed, his arm draped over her waist.

She watched him for a long moment, marveling at the transformation. The man who had once seemed carved from ice was warm against her, his breath slow and steady, his heart beating beneath her hand.

She had crossed the threshold.

And she had no desire to cross back.