Page 19 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
Mrs. Winters bobbed a quick curtsey. “Of course, Your Grace. Poor thing looks worn to the bone.” She stepped toward Eleanor with a click of her tongue. “Come now, My Lady. We’ll get youout of that dress—oh heavens, you must’ve had quite the journey—and into something fresh. You’ll feel more yourself after a wash and a bowl of broth, I daresay. This way now, gently.”
Eleanor wanted to protest, but the housekeeper herded her away.
She looked over her shoulder at Charlotte.
Thankfully, she had found her friend at last.
Hours later, Eleanor sat curled up in a large armchair near the hearth, wrapped in a borrowed robe of pale blue muslin.
The guest chamber was far too grand for comfort—high ceilings with gilded trim, tall windows draped in silk, and a bed so wide and plush that she hadn’t dared to lie in it. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and polish, unfamiliar scents that reminded her of the world she didn’t belong to anymore.
Or rather, the world she was about to be thrust back into if the Duke’s plans succeeded.
She had dozed fitfully, but true rest had eluded her. The silence of the house was oppressive. Every creak of the old wood made her flinch. She had just closed her eyes again when the door clicked open.
She bolted upright, heart leaping. “Who?—?”
The door closed behind the intruder, and she stood up quickly, clutching the robe tighter around her frame.
It was the Duke of Everdawn. He looked freshly shaven, his hair combed and clothes immaculate—dark coat, crisp cravat, evening waistcoat.
A sudden warmth bloomed deep within her chest, unfamiliar and unsettling. Her pulse quickened, her breath catching for no clear reason.
She had never felt this way before—this sharp, distracting pull toward a man who should have been nothing more than a stranger. It was both a thrilling and frightening sensation, one she quickly tried to suppress beneath layers of caution and distrust.
“Of course it is you,” she huffed.
“My library, your room,” he countered. “Perhaps we are destined to keep barging into one another’s space.”
“Just like we are destined to be wed?” she challenged. “Why would you tell Charlotte such a lie?”
“A lie?” he scoffed. “I said I would marry you when we were at St. Euphemia’s.”
“When I was half unconscious?” she riposted.
“Let us not argue about the matter,” he said quickly. She realized that there was a tightness around his eyes that had not been there earlier. “I believe you now, Lady Eleanor. I am sorry I did not at first.”
“So it took seeing my punishment for you to believe me,” she accused, her lip curling.
To his credit, he looked ashamed, glancing away for a moment.
“I know.” His voice was ever so quiet, so much so that she almost dwelled on it if not for him speaking up again. “But until I know the full story, I will not tell Charlotte anything.”
“She has a right to know,” Eleanor pointed out. “And I would like her to hear it fromme.”
“For her safety, I cannot let you. Not yet. Tell me first.” The Duke met her gaze.
“Yet you will only tell Charlotte if you deem it truthful enough, worthy of her knowing. Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because I saved your life,” he snapped. “Because they could have killed you in that damned cauldron.”
“So let me save Charlotte’s!” Eleanor shouted, panting. “She has every right to know the truth, as I did.”
The Duke did not respond, and it gave her the confidence to keep speaking.
“I cannot lie to my best friend,” she breathed.
His gaze sharpened. “Do you truly think Charlotte could bear seeing you like that? In that cauldron, with those wounds? You rode here despite your wounds, risking your life, to warn her against something. Something as dangerous as the nuns who harmed you. So, tell me, My Lady, do you think Charlotte could handle the whole, dark truth?”
