Page 37 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
Spencer had never quite known how his friend could shift so smoothly between both personas.
“Come on, you truly think I’ll embarrass you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are absolutely correct.” Theodore barked a laugh. “But fine. While you keep your wife hidden, I will listen out for more stories of her beauty. London was quite abuzz when she debuted, if memory serves me well. She turned down quite a horde of hopeful suitors, too. Beautiful women are powerfulwomen—do not forget that, Spencer. Perhaps you can gain more from your wife than just information.”
Spencer growled at him, but Theodore only laughed, loud and pleased with himself.
Chapter Eleven
Several days passed in much the same way as the first one: tense, overly polite breakfasts where Eleanor told herself that she had plenty to do. That her life was no longer confined to the endless corridors of Everdawn Hall.
The Duke’s gaze lingered on her during the meals, both thrilling and unsettling. She wanted him to look away, yet she felt oddly adrift when he did. He looked at her as though he trulysawher, but also as though she were a riddle he couldn’t quite solve.
She didn’t know if that said more about him or her.
Each afternoon, she would return to what she had begun to think of as the Lotus Garden—her patch of neglected green at the far edge of the estate. There, she would plant daffodils and lilies, and above all, a generous number of lotuses. It was small and quiet, and for a little while, she could breathe.
But she kept noticing birds flitting above a distant, steepled roof, just visible from where she crouched in the dirt. It was tucked away in a forgotten section of the garden, half-swallowed by ivy. At first, it had looked like the remains of a chapel or a crypt. Something ruined and secretive.
Her curiosity got the better of her.
She followed the path one afternoon and found it—an old greenhouse, its frame worn and the glass fogged with age and dirt. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. Rubbish lay piled in the corners, the remnants of something once beautiful now lost to time.
Eleanor stared at the forgotten space, her heart suddenly alight with the first flicker of purpose she’d felt since her arrival.
An idea began to form in her mind.
She took off back the way she had come, seeking Mrs. Winters. She was breathless and smiling by the time she found the housekeeper in the kitchen.
The older woman started at her sudden arrival. “Your Grace, are you looking for His Grace?”
“May I have some cleaning supplies?” Eleanor asked instead.
Mrs. Winters’ expression shifted immediately. She straightened, the lines on her face tightening with concern. “I can see towhatever task has been left undone. I’ll also find out who allowed such a state?—”
“No,” Eleanor cut in, holding up her hands. “No one is at fault. I… I found an old greenhouse tucked away in the garden. I’d like to restore it.”
A beat of silence followed.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters said gently, “you shouldn’t trouble yourself with that sort of work. I can arrange?—”
“I want to do it,” Eleanor insisted, her voice firm now. “Please. I’ve spent too long with nothing to care for, nothing to make with my hands. This is something I can fix. Something that can belong to me.”
Mrs. Winters studied her for a moment and then gave a small nod. “Very well. But I’ll have someone check in on you from time to time. Just in case.”
Eleanor smiled. “Agreed.”
The housekeeper moved to gather rags, a broom, a pail, and a few tools, muttering something about strong-willed young women under her breath, though not unkindly.
Within the hour, Eleanor was in the greenhouse, the door half hanging off its hinges, the air thick with dust and the sweet breath of damp leaves.
And that was how her husband found her: barefoot, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, brushing years of grime from the twisted branches of a forgotten fig tree.
He peered down at her. She was always struck by how tall he was.
“What do you think you are doing?”
