The Lady Watched Her First Love Choose Another — Then the Duke Returned the Compass She Had Forgotten

Part 1

By the time Miss Eleanor Ashcombe learned that hope could humiliate a person without anyone intending cruelty, she had spent seven years mistaking familiarity for a promise.

The mistake began with a sapphire.

It was the last week of November, and rain had turned the lawns of Bellmere House dark as bottle glass. Eleanor sat near the morning-room fire with Thomas Vale, who had been walking through the doors of Bellmere without ceremony since they were children.

At thirty-one, Thomas was master of a respectable estate six miles away, owner of three excellent hunters, one disastrous spaniel, and an inability to conceal nervousness from anyone who knew him well.

Eleanor knew him very well.

She knew he drummed two fingers against his knee when worried. She knew he drank coffee too hot and complained afterward. She knew he disliked pears, pretended not to fear thunderstorms, and always looked at the floor before announcing anything important.

So when Thomas looked at the floor and said, “I bought a ring yesterday,” Eleanor’s heart betrayed her before her reason had time to object.

“A ring?”

Across the room, her mother continued writing a letter.

Thomas smiled.

“An expensive one.”

“How tragic.”

“Devastating. I may never recover.”

Eleanor managed a laugh.

Thomas had asked her about sapphires two weeks earlier.

She remembered the conversation with painful clarity. They had been riding home from the village when he had asked whether she considered diamonds unimaginative.

She had told him stones possessed no imagination at all and could hardly be blamed for the men who purchased them.

He had laughed.

Then he had asked what she would choose.

“Sapphire,” she had answered.

Now he had bought a ring.

Eleanor looked at his hands.

“For whom?”

“That would rather ruin the surprise.”

Her pulse quickened.

Thomas had always teased her. He had always confided in her. He had written to her from Oxford, brought her books from London, sought her opinion on tenants, horses, politics, and occasionally his waistcoats.

For seven years Eleanor had told herself she was content with friendship.

For perhaps four of those years, she had been lying.

“When will you ask her?”

“Saturday.”

Saturday.

Lady Wexford’s winter ball.

Eleanor lowered her eyes to her tea before Thomas could see what hope had already begun constructing inside them.

A Christmas wedding announcement.

Spring at Vale Court.

Breakfast beside the eastern windows.

Thomas complaining about the sunlight.

Children someday, perhaps.

A life so familiar that Eleanor had never noticed she had furnished every room of it before anyone invited her inside.

“I hope she accepts,” Eleanor said.

Thomas’s face softened.

“So do I.”

Her mother’s pen stopped.

Only for a second.

Eleanor did not notice.

She was already imagining herself wearing a sapphire.

Across three counties, Adrian Blackwood, eighth Duke of Harrowmere, had spent two years attempting not to imagine Eleanor Ashcombe wearing anything that belonged to him.

At thirty-seven, Adrian possessed most of the advantages society considered important and almost none he personally valued.

He had a title old enough to make genealogists reverent, estates large enough to require a permanent administrative staff, a London house people continually tried to be invited into, and a reputation for severity that had grown primarily because he disliked repeating himself.

He had never threatened a man with a duel in White’s.

He had never ruined a viscount over breakfast.

He had, however, once required a gentleman to apologize publicly to a footman he had struck.

Society remembered the punishment more vividly than the offense.

Eleanor Ashcombe had heard every story.

She remained unimpressed.

That was the first thing Adrian had liked about her.

They had met properly two winters earlier when a pompous baronet spent half a dinner explaining agricultural improvement to Eleanor’s father, Sir Edmund Ashcombe.

The baronet owned no agricultural land.

Eleanor eventually asked, “How many acres do you manage, Sir Percy?”

“None personally.”

“Tenants?”

“No.”

“Livestock?”

Sir Percy frowned. “My interests are chiefly financial.”

Eleanor nodded.

“How fortunate for the livestock.”

Adrian had nearly inhaled his wine.

She heard him.

Their eyes met.

Eleanor looked briefly horrified.

Then she realized he was trying not to laugh.

Her own mouth twitched.

That was all.

Not love.

Adrian distrusted men who called every attraction destiny.

But he began noticing her.

He noticed that Eleanor listened before speaking. That she could be merciless toward arrogance but gentle with embarrassment. That she read history with slips of paper marking arguments she wished to dispute. That she loved old horses, disliked excessive embroidery, and occasionally disappeared from crowded drawing rooms to talk to children or servants.

He also noticed Thomas Vale.

That discovery ended Adrian’s intentions before they properly began.

Eleanor looked at Vale differently.

A room could contain forty people, and she always knew when he entered it.

Adrian understood.

He had seen the same involuntary attention in himself whenever Eleanor appeared.

So he did nothing.

A duke could place an extraordinary weight upon a woman’s choices merely by asking her to consider him. Adrian refused to use rank as leverage against a man Eleanor already loved.

He danced with her sometimes.

Argued with her frequently.

Thought about her constantly.

And waited for nothing.

Then came Lady Wexford’s ball.

Eleanor arrived wearing dark blue.

Adrian saw her from the opposite end of the ballroom.

He had long ago learned that looking at Eleanor immediately upon entering a room was unwise.

He did it anyway.

Thomas Vale was already there.

So was Miss Clara Pembroke, Eleanor’s closest friend.

Clara was laughing at something Thomas had said.

Eleanor joined them.

Adrian looked away.

“Your Grace.”

Lady Wexford had materialized beside him.

“Lady Wexford.”

“I have someone you must meet.”

“You always do.”

“My niece.”

“You always have one.”

“She is extraordinarily accomplished.”

“They always are.”

Lady Wexford narrowed her eyes.

“You make matchmaking sound like livestock management.”

“I have always considered livestock management more honest.”

She laughed despite herself.

Adrian submitted to an introduction, danced once with Lady Wexford’s perfectly pleasant niece, spoke to three political acquaintances, and spent forty minutes pretending not to know precisely where Eleanor stood.

Then the musicians stopped.

Thomas Vale moved toward the center of the room.

Adrian saw the small velvet box in his hand.

He looked at Eleanor.

She had seen it too.

Her face transformed.

Adrian felt something inside him sink.

So.

It had finally come.

Vale would ask her.

She would accept.

And Adrian would congratulate them because loving someone did not entitle a man to resent her happiness.

Thomas approached Eleanor and Clara.

Eleanor’s hands tightened.

Thomas smiled.

Then he turned.

Toward Clara.

Adrian’s attention sharpened.

Thomas took Clara’s hand.

Clara covered her mouth.

Eleanor did not move.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Thomas went down on one knee.

“Clara Pembroke,” he said, “I had prepared something eloquent, but apparently I have forgotten all of it.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

Thomas opened the box.

A sapphire gleamed beneath the chandeliers.

Adrian looked at Eleanor.

He saw the exact instant she understood.

Hope disappeared first.

Then disbelief.

Then something worse because she could not permit it to show.

Thomas was speaking.

Adrian barely heard him.

“Will you marry me?”

Clara began crying.

“Yes.”

Applause erupted.

Eleanor applauded.

Adrian would remember that for years.

She applauded.

Her closest friend threw her arms around her. Eleanor embraced Clara and said something Adrian could not hear.

Thomas kissed Eleanor’s cheek.

She smiled at him.

No accusation.

No scene.

No attempt to make another woman’s joy responsible for her pain.

Then Eleanor stepped backward.

Only one step.

Adrian moved.

He crossed the ballroom before he had fully decided what he intended to do.

Eleanor saw him approaching.

Her eyes widened.

“Your Grace.”

“Dance with me.”

She stared.

“That sounded suspiciously like an order.”

“Then punish me for it tomorrow.”

“I am not—”

“Eleanor.”

It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name.

Her expression changed.

Behind her, people crowded around the newly engaged couple.

Adrian extended his hand.

“Come.”

Eleanor looked at it.

Then at him.

Something in his face must have persuaded her.

She placed her hand in his.

The orchestra began a waltz.

Adrian guided her onto the floor.

For several moments Eleanor said nothing.

Her face had gone pale.

“You needn’t speak,” he said.

“I am perfectly capable of conversation.”

“I have never doubted your capacity. Only your present enthusiasm.”

A tiny sound escaped her.

Almost a laugh.

Almost grief.

Adrian turned her.

Her gaze moved past his shoulder toward Thomas and Clara.

He altered direction.

His body blocked them from view.

Eleanor noticed.

“Don’t.”

Adrian’s hand tightened slightly at her waist.

“Don’t what?”

“Be kind.”

He looked at her.

“That is an unusual complaint.”

“If you are kind, I may cry.”

“Ah.”

“Everyone will see.”

“No.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

Adrian looked deliberately around the ballroom.

“Everyone is looking at me.”

Eleanor blinked.

“One occasionally discovers a practical advantage to being a duke.”

She laughed.

It came out broken.

Her eyes filled.

Adrian kept turning her through the dance.

People watched him because people always watched him.

For once, he was grateful.

They whispered about why Harrowmere was dancing with Miss Ashcombe.

They noticed his hand at her waist and his head bent toward hers.

They did not notice Eleanor struggling to put herself back together.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did.

“Not at them.”

Her breath trembled.

“I feel like a fool.”

“You are not one.”

“You do not know why.”

“Yes.”

Her face changed.

Adrian regretted the answer immediately, but he would not insult her by pretending blindness.

“You knew?”

“I knew you cared for him.”

Mortification replaced grief.

Adrian lowered his voice.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I imagined—”

“Nothing.”

The music ended.

Neither moved immediately.

Then Eleanor straightened.

“I should congratulate Clara properly.”

“You already have.”

“I should do it while resembling a woman rather than a battlefield casualty.”

“That is an ambitious social standard.”

She almost smiled.

“Thank you.”

Adrian bowed.

“You are welcome.”

She returned to her friends.

Only after she had walked away did the forbidden thought come.

Thomas Vale was marrying someone else.

Eleanor was free.

Adrian despised the hope.

He would not exploit her pain.

He would not offer a coronet as compensation for a sapphire another man had given away.

But something had changed.

For two years Adrian had remained outside a closed door because Eleanor’s heart belonged, as far as he knew, to someone else.

Tonight that door had not opened.

It had shattered.

And Adrian made himself one promise.

He would not walk through the wreckage.

He would wait until Eleanor could stand among it and decide for herself where she wished to go.

Three days later, he called at Bellmere House.

Eleanor considered escaping through the conservatory.

Her father caught her halfway there.

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk.”

“It is raining.”

“I enjoy rain.”

“You have complained about English rain since infancy.”

“People mature.”

“Not that dramatically.”

Eleanor glared.

Sir Edmund lowered his newspaper.

“Harrowmere is in the blue drawing room.”

“I did not ask.”

“No.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Your mother instructed me.”

“Coward.”

“Marriage requires compromise.”

Eleanor entered the drawing room five minutes later.

Adrian stood near the window.

He turned.

“Miss Ashcombe.”

“Your Grace.”

He studied her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You made a face.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Why are you here?”

“To see your father.”

“He is in the library.”

“I have seen him.”

“Then congratulations. Your visit is complete.”

His mouth almost moved.

“There you are.”

Eleanor frowned.

“Where?”

“Nowhere.”

She folded her hands.

Adrian sat opposite her.

“I purchased a horse.”

Eleanor blinked.

“A horse?”

“Your father’s gray.”

“Mercury?”

“Yes.”

“You cannot have Mercury.”

“I have already paid for him.”

“He hates strangers.”

“He will adjust.”

“He threw Colonel Fane into a hedge.”

“I dislike Colonel Fane.”

“Mercury did not know that.”

“Then his judgment is instinctive.”

Eleanor stared at him.

Then, against every intention she possessed, she laughed.

Actually laughed.

For perhaps five seconds she forgot the sapphire entirely.

Adrian watched her.

The expression in his eyes made her laughter fade.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Buying unsuitable horses?”

“Coming here.”

Adrian could have answered truthfully.

Because I have loved you for two years.

Instead he said, “Your father has overcharged me by at least two hundred guineas. I intend to recover the loss through his hospitality.”

“That is terrible.”

“I thought so.”

Silence settled.

Eleanor looked toward the fire.

“I am all right.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“No. Everyone else does.”

“Then I shall distinguish myself.”

She looked at him again.

There was no pity in his face.

That helped.

Adrian rose.

“I intend to ride Mercury Thursday.”

“He will kill you.”

“Then you should accompany me.”

Eleanor’s eyebrow lifted.

“To supervise your death?”

“To prevent it, ideally.”

She should refuse.

Instead she said, “Ten o’clock.”

Adrian bowed.

“Ten.”

At the door he stopped.

“Eleanor.”

She looked up.

“I have never wanted you to move merely because I entered a room.”

Then he left.

Eleanor remained beside the fire long after the sound of his carriage disappeared.

For the first time in three days, she found herself thinking about something other than Thomas Vale.

That frightened her.

It also saved her.

## Part 2

Mercury attempted to bite the Duke of Harrowmere at ten minutes past ten on Thursday morning.

Eleanor laughed so hard she had to lean against the stable door.

Adrian regarded the gray horse.

“I have reconsidered.”

“You purchased him.”

“I shall return him.”

“My father will refuse.”

“France, then.”

“You would exile Mercury?”

“He began hostilities.”

Mercury snapped again.

Adrian stepped aside.

“Spain.”

Eleanor laughed harder.

They rode for nearly two hours.

Adrian did not ask about Thomas.

That surprised her.

Everyone else seemed unable to speak to Eleanor without constructing elaborate bridges around his name.

Adrian spoke instead about Bellmere’s southern fields, Parliament, a disputed road, drainage, and whether Sir Edmund’s tenant improvements were financially sensible.

Eventually they argued.

It felt wonderful.

“You cannot move a village road merely because your surveyor finds the existing route inefficient,” Eleanor said.

“I said nothing about moving the village.”

“You implied it.”

“You have developed an alarming interest in my implications.”

“You have developed an alarming belief that your implications deserve study.”

“Most people study them carefully.”

“That is because most people are afraid of you.”

Adrian looked genuinely surprised.

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Excellent.”

“You sound pleased.”

“I am.”

They reached a ridge overlooking bare winter fields.

Eleanor slowed her mare.

The valley below was brown and silver beneath a cold sky.

“Thomas and Clara leave for London tomorrow,” she said.

Adrian remained quiet.

“They want me to visit after the wedding.”

“Will you?”

“Eventually.”

He nodded.

“I love Clara.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want her to feel guilty.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“So I must behave normally.”

“No.”

Eleanor turned.

“No?”

“You must behave honestly.”

“That sounds inconvenient.”

“Most worthwhile things are.”

She stared at him.

Adrian looked toward the valley.

“You have decided that because neither of them deliberately hurt you, you have no right to be hurt.”

Eleanor swallowed.

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Know things I have not told you.”

His expression became unreadable.

He did not answer.

Eleanor looked away.

“I thought I would marry him.”

The confession seemed to leave her body physically.

Adrian said nothing.

“I imagined Vale Court. The garden. His library. I even thought about moving the breakfast table because the morning sun bothers his eyes.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Imagine being foolish enough to rearrange furniture in a house where no one has asked you to live.”

“You hoped.”

“I invented.”

“Both may be true.”

Eleanor looked at him.

“I told him sapphire.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

“He asked which stone I preferred. I thought…”

Her voice failed.

Adrian did not say Thomas was a fool.

He did not say she deserved better.

He did not say fate had intended something else.

Instead he said, “That must have been terrible.”

The simplicity of it nearly undid her.

“Yes.”

They remained on the ridge until Eleanor could breathe normally.

Then Adrian said, “For what it is worth, I dislike sapphires.”

She stared.

“Why?”

“They are now associated with an intolerably miserable evening.”

Eleanor laughed.

Adrian smiled.

They rode home.

Halfway there, Eleanor realized she had gone nearly an hour without thinking about Thomas.

Over the next three weeks Adrian appeared with suspicious frequency.

He dined at Bellmere.

He encountered Eleanor at the village assembly.

He sent Sir Edmund a book about agricultural rents and included another volume with a note:

*Your daughter will disagree with chapter nine. I should like to hear the prosecution.*

Eleanor did disagree.

She wrote six pages explaining why.

Adrian returned eight pages.

They argued by correspondence for four days.

Then he appeared at Lady Haversham’s musical evening.

Eleanor found him beside the refreshments.

She stopped.

“You hate musical evenings.”

“I am broadening myself.”

“You once described Lady Haversham’s soprano as an argument against civilization.”

“I have matured.”

“You are following me.”

Adrian took a small tart.

“An extraordinary accusation.”

“Is it inaccurate?”

“Yes.”

She waited.

He ate the tart.

“Entirely?”

Adrian looked at the ceiling.

Eleanor’s eyes widened.

“You are.”

“Lower your voice. I have a reputation.”

She laughed.

Across the room, several people turned.

Adrian noticed.

Eleanor did not.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you keep appearing?”

This time he did not evade.

“Because I enjoy your company.”

Eleanor’s smile faltered.

“So do many people.”

“I cannot account for their judgment.”

“Adrian.”

He went still.

She had never called him that before.

Something in his expression made her suddenly conscious of the distance between them.

Or lack of it.

“I enjoy your company,” he repeated.

No humor.

No protection.

Eleanor looked away first.

After that evening, something dangerous began happening.

She expected him.

At dinners, she noticed whether Adrian had arrived.

When someone said something ridiculous, she wondered what he would say about it.

When she read an argument that annoyed her, she marked the page because Adrian must be made to suffer through her objections.

That frightened her enough that she avoided him for nearly a week.

Adrian noticed.

He did not pursue her.

The restraint unsettled her more than pursuit might have.

Then an invitation arrived for the entire Ashcombe family to dine at Harrowmere Abbey.

Eleanor tried to refuse.

Her father accepted.

Harrowmere was not what she expected.

It was grand, certainly: stone terraces, ancient towers, portraits, galleries, libraries.

But dogs slept on chairs.

Books lay open on tables.

A suit of armor in the entrance hall lacked one glove because Adrian’s younger brother had apparently stolen it at seven and hidden it so effectively that no one had found it in thirty years.

Adrian’s widowed mother, the Dowager Duchess, greeted Eleanor warmly.

Lady Augusta Blackwood was sixty-four, elegant and observant.

She looked once at Eleanor.

Then at her son.

Then back at Eleanor.

“Oh,” she said.

Eleanor stiffened.

“Your Grace?”

“Nothing.”

It was clearly not nothing.

After dinner Eleanor wandered into the portrait gallery.

She stopped before a painting of Adrian at twenty-one.

“You looked unbearable.”

“I was.”

She turned.

Adrian stood behind her.

“You admit it?”

“I was twenty-one.”

“That explains rather than excuses.”

He came beside her.

In the portrait, the younger Adrian looked magnificent and furious.

“Why were you angry?”

“I had been standing there for six hours.”

“No.”

Adrian glanced at her.

“You weren’t angry about the painting.”

His smile disappeared.

Eleanor looked again at the portrait.

“You were angry about becoming him.”

“Who?”

“The Duke.”

Silence.

Adrian studied his younger self.

“My father had died eight months earlier.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Most people don’t.”

“You were twenty-one.”

“Yes.”

“And responsible for all this?”

He nodded.

Eleanor suddenly saw the portrait differently.

Not arrogance.

Fear held rigid enough to resemble authority.

“Did anyone ask whether you were ready?”

Adrian looked at her.

“No.”

Something shifted between them.

Eleanor glanced along the gallery.

“This place is extraordinary.”

“It leaks.”

She laughed.

“Your abbey leaks?”

“Every ancient house in England leaks. Nobility merely provides larger roofs through which rain may enter.”

“You truly don’t care whether I’m impressed.”

“No.”

The answer came instantly.

Eleanor looked at him.

“Shouldn’t that offend you?”

“It is one of the things I like most about you.”

The gallery became very quiet.

Adrian stepped closer.

Eleanor’s pulse changed.

He stopped before touching her.

She could see the gray in his eyes, the line beside his mouth, the tiny scar near his temple she had never noticed.

She inhaled sharply.

Adrian stepped backward.

Eleanor felt the loss of his nearness.

That frightened her more than the nearness itself.

“I should find Mama.”

“Yes.”

She turned.

“Eleanor.”

She looked back.

“You needn’t be afraid because you are beginning to enjoy being with me.”

Her defenses rose.

“I am not afraid.”

Adrian said nothing.

That was worse.

Eleanor left.

That night she lay awake and discovered she had not thought of Thomas once during dinner.

Not once.

She tried to summon his face.

It came.

But faintly.

Then Adrian replaced him.

His eyes.

His ridiculous horse.

His portrait.

His restraint.

Eleanor opened her eyes.

“No.”

The darkness offered no assistance.

Three days later a letter came from Clara.

Eleanor opened it alone.

Clara wrote about wedding preparations, London, flowers, Thomas’s inability to make decisions about curtains.

Then came a paragraph that made Eleanor stop breathing.

Clara had noticed.

Not everything.

Enough.

She asked whether Eleanor had been unhappy the night of the proposal.

She asked for truth.

Eleanor’s first instinct was denial.

Then Adrian’s words returned.

*Behave honestly.*

Eleanor went upstairs and wrote.

She told Clara she had loved Thomas.

She had misunderstood.

She had believed the ring might be hers.

She had been hurt.

And she still loved Clara.

At the end she wrote:

*Do not diminish your happiness because I misunderstood my own hopes. I may need time before I can stand beside you both without remembering what I imagined, but that time is mine to take and not yours to apologize for.*

She sealed the letter.

Then she cried.

When it was finished, she felt lighter.

Not healed.

But honest.

That afternoon Adrian came for Mercury.

Eleanor met him at the stable.

“Your horse remains criminal,” he said.

“He is your horse.”

“I rescind ownership.”

“You cannot rescind affection.”

“Watch me.”

She laughed.

Adrian studied her.

“You are better.”

“A little.”

He nodded.

Eleanor touched the stable gate.

“I wrote to Clara.”

He waited.

“I told her.”

Understanding entered his eyes.

“How do you feel?”

“Terrified.”

“Honesty often charges admission.”

“And relieved.”

“That too.”

Eleanor smiled.

Then she looked directly at him.

“Adrian.”

“Yes?”

“How did you know?”

He became still.

“That night. How did you know what had happened to me when no one else did?”

The moment stretched.

Adrian could have lied.

Instead he said, “Because I was watching you.”

Eleanor’s breath caught.

“I have been watching you for a long time.”

“How long?”

He almost smiled.

“You will dislike the answer.”

“Do not decide what I will dislike.”

“Two years.”

She stared.

“Two years?”

“And several months.”

“But Thomas…”

“Yes.”

“You knew?”

“Yes.”

“And you said nothing?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Adrian’s answer came softly.

“Because you loved him.”

The stable seemed suddenly too small.

“You could have courted me.”

“I could have.”

“You’re a duke.”

“I am painfully aware.”

“You could have—”

“What? Asked you to compare his affection with my title? Made every ballroom in England wonder why you had refused Harrowmere if you chose him? Forced you to consider whether affection for Vale justified rejecting everything society insisted I represented?”

Eleanor said nothing.

“I wanted you,” Adrian continued. “I did not want your surrender.”

Her heart struck hard against her ribs.

“And now?”

“Now there is no one you are waiting for.”

Eleanor swallowed.

“So you came because Thomas chose Clara.”

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

“I came because his choice finally made it honorable for me to tell you mine.”

Adrian stepped closer.

Only once.

“I love you, Eleanor.”

There it was.

No ballroom.

No orchestra.

No kneeling man.

No sapphire.

Only winter light entering a stable and a duke who had waited two years to say six words.

Eleanor’s eyes burned.

“I cannot promise you anything.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know what I feel.”

“I know.”

“I loved someone else a month ago.”

“I know.”

She almost laughed through her tears.

“You are becoming repetitive.”

“I have waited two years. Allow me some inefficiency.”

Eleanor looked at him.

“What do you want?”

“A chance.”

“For what?”

“For you to know me while actually looking in my direction.”

The words landed more deeply than any declaration.

Eleanor thought of every ballroom where Adrian had stood unnoticed by her.

Every argument.

Every dance.

Every moment he had stepped backward when another man might have pressed forward.

“How long?” she whispered.

Adrian understood.

“As long as necessary.”

Eleanor’s throat tightened.

Then Mercury pushed his head between them and nearly knocked Adrian into the stable wall.

Eleanor burst out laughing.

Adrian glared at the horse.

“I am definitely selling him.”

She laughed harder.

And Adrian, watching her, knew waiting had been worth every day.

## Part 3

The Duke of Harrowmere began formally courting Eleanor Ashcombe by sending her nothing.

No roses.

No jewels.

No enormous arrangement from a London florist.

Nothing.

By eleven the following morning Eleanor was irritated.

By noon she was irritated that she was irritated.

At one she passed the front window for the fourth time.

Her mother looked up.

“Expecting someone?”

“No.”

“Then the drive has become unusually fascinating.”

“I am not waiting for Adrian.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I said nothing.”

“You said it maternally.”

Before Lady Ashcombe could answer, Sir Edmund entered carrying a small wooden box.

“This came for you.”

Eleanor looked up too quickly.

Both parents noticed.

She hated them.

The box was plain.

Inside lay an old brass compass.

Beneath it was a note.

Eleanor unfolded it.

*You once said that people are rarely lost because they cannot find a road. Usually they are lost because they refuse to admit the old road has ended.*

*You were right.*

*A.*

Eleanor read it three times.

Her father leaned forward.

“A compass?”

“Yes.”

“Strange courtship.”

Eleanor closed the box.

“I like it.”

Her mother hid a smile.

Adrian came the following day.

“You sent me a compass.”

“Yes.”

“Not flowers.”

“You dislike cut flowers because you say killing something in order to demonstrate affection is logically confused.”

Eleanor stared.

“I said that nearly a year ago.”

“I remember.”

“Why?”

“Because you said it.”

There it was again.

That disarming simplicity.

They walked through the winter garden.

At the stone bridge Eleanor stopped.

“What happens if I never love you?”

Adrian’s face became serious.

“Then I shall be disappointed.”

“That is all?”

“What else?”

“You have waited two years.”

“That creates no debt.”

“You have done all this.”

“Still no debt.”

“You love me.”

“Yes.”

“And if I cannot return it?”

“Then I shall prefer an honest wound to a grateful marriage.”

Eleanor looked at him for a long time.

Something inside her, something still frightened by its own capacity for invention, began to trust what stood before her.

Weeks passed.

Adrian did not overwhelm her.

He simply remained.

They rode.

Read.

Argued.

Visited tenants.

Once Eleanor watched him spend an hour listening to an elderly farmer whose complaint could have been settled in ten minutes.

Another time she saw him stop a dinner conversation when a young maid dropped a tray and a guest laughed.

Adrian did not raise his voice.

The guest never laughed at a servant in Harrowmere again.

Eleanor began seeing what power looked like when it was governed rather than displayed.

Adrian, meanwhile, learned that Eleanor was far more difficult to court than he had anticipated.

She challenged his estate decisions.

Stole books from his library.

Corrected his Latin once and was wrong.

He mentioned this mistake for three weeks.

She threatened murder.

He seemed delighted.

Then Thomas and Clara returned.

Eleanor learned at breakfast.

Her hand stopped above her tea.

Her mother saw.

“You needn’t go.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know whether I can.”

The first meeting took place at Bellmere.

Clara entered the drawing room first.

She stopped when she saw Eleanor.

Neither woman spoke.

Then Clara crossed the room and embraced her.

“I am sorry.”

Eleanor held her.

“No.”

“I never knew.”

“I know.”

“If I had—”

“No.”

Eleanor drew back.

“Do not rewrite your happiness to rescue me from a misunderstanding.”

Clara’s eyes filled.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

Thomas entered several minutes later.

That was harder.

He looked almost exactly as he always had.

Eleanor waited for the old rush of attention.

It came.

But smaller.

A memory of love rather than love itself.

“Ellie.”

“Thomas.”

He looked uncomfortable.

“I read Clara’s letter.”

Eleanor closed her eyes.

“Of course she told you.”

“We are to be married.”

“Yes. Apparently this involves communication. A terrible modern innovation.”

Thomas almost smiled.

Then his expression broke.

“I am sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“I should have understood.”

“Why?”

Thomas looked at her.

“Because I knew you.”

“You knew the version of me that was your friend. I never told you the rest.”

He swallowed.

“The sapphire.”

Eleanor laughed softly.

“That was spectacularly unfortunate.”

“I asked because Clara once said you had excellent taste.”

For one second Eleanor simply stared.

Then she began laughing.

Thomas stared.

She laughed until tears came.

“Eleanor?”

“All this time…”

She covered her mouth.

“You asked me because Clara trusted my taste?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Thomas.”

“I am an idiot.”

“No.”

She wiped her eyes.

“But perhaps a little.”

They both laughed.

And just like that, the last great mystery of her old hope became ordinary.

Not destiny interrupted.

Not love stolen.

A misunderstanding.

Painful, human, finished.

That evening Eleanor rode to Harrowmere.

Adrian was in the library.

He rose when she entered.

“What happened?”

“How do you know something happened?”

“You have arrived unannounced after dark.”

“Perhaps I have become adventurous.”

“You brought your maid and two grooms.”

“Responsibly adventurous.”

His eyes searched her face.

“Thomas came home.”

Adrian became still.

Eleanor saw it.

For all his patience, for all his confidence, Adrian was afraid.

She had never understood that before.

“Ah,” he said.

“I spoke to him.”

Adrian nodded.

“And?”

Eleanor walked toward him.

“The sapphire was my fault.”

He frowned.

“Explain.”

“Clara told him I had excellent taste. He asked me which stone I preferred because he wanted my advice for her ring.”

Adrian stared.

Then, against all dignity, the Duke of Harrowmere began laughing.

Eleanor hit his arm.

“This is not amusing.”

“It is a little amusing.”

“I suffered for weeks.”

“I know. That part is not amusing.”

“You are laughing.”

“At Vale’s astonishing incompetence.”

She hit him again.

Adrian caught her hand.

Both became still.

His fingers closed around hers.

Eleanor looked down.

Then up.

“Adrian.”

“Yes?”

“I saw Thomas today.”

He stopped smiling.

“And I remembered loving him.”

Adrian released her hand.

Eleanor felt the withdrawal.

She continued before fear could distort his understanding.

“But I did not want him.”

Adrian did not move.

“I thought I would,” she whispered. “Some part of me was afraid that the moment he walked through the door, everything would return.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

Eleanor stepped closer.

“I looked at him and saw everything I had once imagined.”

Adrian’s face remained unreadable.

“And then I thought about you.”

Something changed in his eyes.

“I thought about your impossible horse.”

“Your impossible horse.”

“Your leaking abbey.”

“A vicious slander.”

“Your terrible opinions.”

“Now you are being cruel.”

“The compass in my pocket.”

Adrian looked down.

Eleanor took it out.

“I have carried it almost every day.”

He stared at the brass object.

Eleanor’s voice softened.

“I think I know where I am now.”

Adrian lifted his eyes.

She had never seen him look uncertain.

It made loving him suddenly, overwhelmingly easy to understand.

Not because he was powerful.

Because he had possessed power over her circumstances and repeatedly refused to use it.

Because he had seen her humiliation and protected her dignity.

Because he had loved her when loving her meant remaining silent.

Because when silence was no longer necessary, he had offered himself without demanding an answer.

Eleanor stepped into the distance he had always allowed her to control.

Then she kissed him.

For one stunned second Adrian did absolutely nothing.

Eleanor drew back.

His expression was extraordinary.

“Was that,” he asked carefully, “intentional?”

“No. I frequently collide mouth-first with dukes.”

“Eleanor.”

She smiled.

“Yes.”

Adrian touched her cheek.

Still he waited.

She understood.

“Yes,” she repeated.

He kissed her.

There was nothing careful about the second kiss.

When they separated, Eleanor rested her forehead against his.

“You were right.”

“About?”

“I was afraid of enjoying you.”

“That sounds insulting.”

“It was meant affectionately.”

“I shall endure it.”

She smiled.

Then Adrian became serious.

“I do not intend to propose tonight.”

Eleanor blinked.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

His eyebrow rose.

“That sounded disappointed.”

“I merely expected greater efficiency.”

“Miss Ashcombe, are you criticizing my courtship?”

“Constantly.”

“I have spent two years waiting.”

“And now?”

“Now I intend to enjoy being wanted for at least a fortnight before risking my dignity.”

Eleanor laughed.

“Coward.”

“Absolutely.”

He kissed her again.

The proposal came seventeen days later.

Not at a ball.

Not before an audience.

Not beneath chandeliers.

Adrian took Eleanor riding to the ridge where she had first confessed the imaginary breakfast table.

Snow covered the valley.

Mercury stood nearby looking deeply offended by winter.

Adrian dismounted.

Eleanor immediately became suspicious.

“What are you doing?”

“Attempting something difficult.”

“You negotiate in Parliament.”

“Far easier.”

He reached inside his coat.

Eleanor’s heart stopped.

A small box appeared.

She looked at him.

“Adrian.”

“I had an excellent speech.”

“What happened to it?”

“I have forgotten nearly all of it.”

She laughed.

“That seems familiar.”

“I dislike that comparison.”

He opened the box.

There was no sapphire.

Inside lay a simple gold ring set with an emerald.

Eleanor looked at him.

“Green?”

“You once said green reminded you of spring arriving after a winter that had lasted too long.”

Her eyes filled.

“Of course you remembered.”

“You said it.”

As though that explained everything.

Perhaps it did.

Adrian took her hand.

“I can give you Harrowmere, Eleanor. The houses. The land. The title. All of it.”

She waited.

“But none of those things are what I am asking you to choose.”

His voice lowered.

“I am asking you to choose the man who argues with you, loses books to you, owns a murderous gray horse because your father cheated him, and has loved you long enough to know that your freedom matters more to him than his certainty.”

Eleanor was crying now.

Adrian smiled slightly.

“I would like breakfast with you. Even if you move the table.”

She laughed through her tears.

“I would like every argument I have not yet lost. Every winter. Every ridiculous musical evening you force me to attend. Every year in which I have the privilege of discovering something else you once said and remembering it.”

He took a breath.

“Eleanor Ashcombe, will you marry me?”

She looked at the ring.

Once, she had imagined another ring so vividly that she had mistaken imagination for destiny.

This was different.

No borrowed future waited behind it.

She could see no perfectly furnished rooms.

No predetermined life.

Only Adrian.

A man.

A choice.

A road she had not traveled.

“Yes.”

Adrian closed his eyes.

Eleanor laughed.

“Is that all?”

His eyes opened.

“What?”

“I expected the Duke of Harrowmere to receive victory more impressively.”

“I am presently trying not to collapse.”

“Very ducal.”

He slid the ring onto her finger.

Then he kissed her in the snow while Mercury attempted to eat Adrian’s glove.

They married in April.

Clara stood beside Eleanor.

Thomas stood beside Adrian and received several private threats regarding sapphires.

Lady Augusta cried.

Sir Edmund insisted he had always known what would happen.

His wife informed everyone that Sir Edmund had predicted the exact opposite until January.

Harrowmere Abbey still leaked.

Eleanor became a duchess and discovered that the title changed less than society expected.

She still argued with Adrian.

Still disappeared from formal dinners when conversation became intolerable.

Still read in bed.

Still challenged estate accounts.

She moved the breakfast table at Harrowmere three times.

Adrian complained every time.

Then followed it.

Years later, a young niece once found an old brass compass in Eleanor’s desk.

“What is this?” the girl asked.

Eleanor took it carefully.

The metal had darkened with age.

She turned it in her palm.

Across the library, Adrian looked up from his book.

Their eyes met.

He knew immediately.

“A gift,” Eleanor said.

“From Uncle Adrian?”

“Yes.”

“Was it expensive?”

Adrian snorted.

Eleanor smiled.

“No.”

“Then why did you keep it?”

Eleanor looked through the window.

Beyond the glass, spring had returned to Harrowmere. Rain shone on the lawns. Mercury’s descendants grazed beyond the stone wall.

Once she had believed losing Thomas meant losing the future.

She understood now that grief had not taken a life from her.

It had only forced her to recognize that the life she mourned had existed almost entirely inside her imagination.

Adrian had never rescued her from that grief.

That was why she had eventually trusted him.

He had simply stood near enough while she found her own way through it.

Eleanor closed her fingers around the compass.

“Because,” she told the girl, “I once spent a very long time walking toward a place I thought I wanted.”

“And the compass showed you the right road?”

Eleanor looked at Adrian again.

He was smiling now.

“No.”

She smiled back.

“It reminded me that I was allowed to choose another one.”

Outside, bells sounded somewhere beyond the valley.

Adrian crossed the library and offered Eleanor his hand.

She took it.

And together they walked toward the open door.