Page 53 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
“I do not, Your Grace. He is very private. If anyone should know his whereabouts, it is you.”
“Well, it must be very private if even his wife cannot know,” Eleanor huffed, almost to herself.
Part of her wondered where he was and what he was doing, and the other part was glad for the reprieve. If he was not there, then she would not be wracked with anticipation, waiting for him to round a corner or throw her off-guard with that disarming, amused smile of his when he found her doing something unusual.
And as much as she didn’t miss him, she had grown used to his presence.
She had come to two conclusions. The first was that he was avoiding her because of their kiss. Perhaps he worried he had crossed her boundaries. Perhaps he didn’t know how to communicate after such a bold act.
There were a thousand different possibilities, because a man who was supposedly so in control would not have run after a kiss.
The second conclusion was that he was digging into Lord Belgrave and Lord Follet, purposefully keeping her at arms’ length, out of the investigation.
She far preferred the anger at that betrayal, for itwasa betrayal. He would not have had anything to investigate if it was not for her, other than the shame of being a regretted kiss.
The more she thought about it, the more she leaned toward the second conclusion. And the more she focused on that, the less she thought about how her name sounded as it rolled off his tongue, how his lips felt against hers.
“Because I do not know how else to want you.”
She flushed, turning away from Frances as she recalled his confession.
A kiss could be a lapse in judgment, but a confession like that surely was not.
“The next time he leaves,” she murmured, “I will follow him.”
The following day, she struggled through another awkward breakfast with her husband. He had not used her Christian name, but he had not reverted to formalities either, as if he did not know where they stood.
When he had finished, he simply nodded to her and left, telling her he had business to attend to out of town.
“I will be here,” she told him sweetly.
Hurriedly, Eleanor made her own plans, intent on following him. And she did.
Her time in the convent had taught her stealth. Had taught her how to give hushed orders and make silent pleas with her eyes to sway the staff to her whim, and how to move as quietly as possible. She would not be a quiet wife, sitting in a corner of a pretty house, looking equally pretty. A duchess enjoying the finer things in life.
No, that was not who she was. She wanted to be useful. She wanted to help Charlotte, and if the Duke was indeed investigating Belgrave or Follet, then she would get involved as well.
With Frances in tow, Eleanor climbed into one of the Duke’s nondescript carriages and followed him.
They journeyed to London, her eyes narrowing the longer the ride went on.
Why would he disappear to London without informing her?
It was several hours away from Everdawn, and by the time she rode into a market, she was restless and annoyed.
Slipping out of the carriage, she waded deeper into the market, passing stalls and merchants that called out their wares. She passed an old tavern where drunkards spilled out of the door, and then she passed by a counting house, keeping the Duke’s figure within view as he hurried down the street.
Eleanor followed on swift feet, halting near a corner at the back of the counting house. She watched from the shadows as the Duke met with a nervous-looking man who kept wringing his hat and adjusting his worn coat. His mop of hair was matted from wearing a hat in the heat, only adding to his disheveled look.
The two of them spoke in hushed tones, the Duke’s carrying his authority, while the other man stuttered and cleared his throat often, as if he knew exactly who he was dealing with.
Who are you?
She eyed the man before her gaze slid to her husband.
And what is going on?
Eleanor pulled away. Now that she knew for certain he was not having an affair or meeting up with Lord Follet and Lord Belgrave, she quickly melted back into the market, slowly picking her way back to the carriage.
