Page 46 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
Soon enough, the conversation shifted from whispered speculation about Eleanor that had Spencer’s fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass, and veered toward him when the main course was served.
“Lord Heswall tells me you are settled now, Your Grace.”
It was the Viscount Monty’s young son, Robert Stanley, whom Spencer had recognized from a ball he had accompanied Charlotte to not long ago.
“I am,” he confirmed.
“You must have missed Everdawn,” Mr. Stanley pressed, his eyes sparkling with intrigue.
Spencer could not tell if he was deliberately stirring up trouble or if he was genuinely curious.
“I… did,” he agreed, before quickly changing the topic. “Lord Heswall, this wine?—”
“I imagine there is no place like home, then,” Mr. Stanley continued. “After all, if you readily brought an end to your travels, Everdawn must be so special.”
“It is home, and I had a duty to fulfill,” Spencer uttered, a quiet warning in his tone.
Drop it. Do not?—
“Whydidyou remove yourself from Society for so long, Your Grace?” Lord Milborne piped up. “There is so much speculation, and you must be itching to dispel the rumors, no?”
“I do not care for rumors,” Spencer stated, feeling rather cornered.
It was not a familiar feeling—one he avoided at all costs. But now, with almost every eye trained on him, he tried to mask his rising panic.
“I must admit, I’ve often wondered why,” Mr. Stanley said lightly. “I overheard at my club that your constant travels have something to do with your scar. A rather dreadful thing, that. Though it seems not to have frightened off Her Grace. Most fortunate, for I daresay that other men wouldn’t have been so lucky.”
Spencer was lost. Lost in their comments and judgment, his tongue too heavy in his mouth.
“Perhaps the women he met liked the exoticness.” Lord Milborne sniggered. He was already into his third glass of wine, his speech slurred, his manners more careless.
“Excuse me, Lord Milborne.” Eleanor’s voice cut cleanly through the laughter and idle chatter. “Forgive my boldness, but it appears you and Mr. Stanley need a reminder about proper conduct. A scar is neither something to recoil from nor a curiosity to gossip about. If the cause has not been disclosed to you, it is because it is no concern of yours.”
“We only want to set the record straight, Your Grace,” Lord Milborne snorted, looking at her as though he did not understand why she was making such a fuss.
“And my husband does not have to answer to anybody,” she said sharply.
She shot him and Mr. Stanley a hard look before she resumed eating.
Spencer did not quite know what to say, but he glared at the men, ensuring they remained silent.
He had considered speaking quietly to his wife. Instead, he had been stunned into silence when she had leaped to his defense.
It was not a rare occurrence for him to keep his silence. However, he loathed it when it happened against his will. There was power in choosing to be silent, and weakness in being rendered it.
But something shifted within him—something soft, something deep. Something he had carefully buried as he had traveled across countries and continents. Something he had vowed to never feel, so he was never tied to anybody who would never understand him, whom he would never have to disappoint.
Something he was not ready tofeel.
Yet it stirred, and it stirred more so when he gazed at Eleanor. She did not meet his eyes, but simply returned to her dinner as though defending him was a very casual occurrence.
Spencer could not recall the last time anybody had done that. He frowned down at his dinner plate, his appetite gone.
The day after, Eleanor returned to the greenhouse to find a small pot waiting for her on the top step of a wooden ladder. No note was left with it, but she recognized the jasmine bloom immediately, and her heart soared.
A smile was already curving her mouth before she could suppress it and begin working on the next part of her project. Every now and then, she caught sight of the bloom and recalled the Duke’s face as he had teased her in front of the florist.
A thought occurred to her, a way to return the gesture, for she did not doubt that it was the Duke who had left the pot there.
