Chapter 4
Part 5
So, Eleanor had dressed in her best gray and gone downstairs and taken her seat at the end of the table without once looking toward the head. She had told herself that if she did not look at him, he would not look at her and the evening would pass. And then her aunt had raised her glass and the Duke had answered.
Now the silence in the dining room stretched on and on. Lady Harriet’s face had gone from pink to white to a curious mottled red. She gave a little laugh, high and brittle.
“Your Grace is pleased to joke,” she said.
“I never joke about Miss Whitmore,” the Duke said quietly.
He rose from his chair. Every eye in the room followed him as he walked the full length of the table, his boots silent on the thick Turkey carpet, until he stood beside Eleanor’s chair. She still had not looked up. She could see only his hand resting on the white tablecloth near her plate. There was a long, pale scar across the back of it from the knuckles to the wrist that had not been there 12 years ago.
“Miss Whitmore,” he said, and his voice was very low now, meant for her alone, though everyone heard it anyway. “Eleanor, will you look at me?”
She raised her eyes. He was older. Of course he was older. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and a thread of silver at his temple. And his face was leaner and harder than she remembered.
As though the years of war had carved away everything that was not necessary. But his eyes were the same. Dark gray, like a sky before rain. And they were looking at her exactly the way they had looked at her under the apple tree.
“I have looked for you,” he said, “for a very long time.”
She could not speak. She opened her mouth and nothing came. And to her horror, she felt her eyes fill with tears there at the table, in front of everyone, in front of her aunt.
She stood up so suddenly that her chair scraped on the floor.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “Forgive me. I am unwell.”
And she turned and walked out of the dining room as quickly as she could without running and did not stop until she had reached the cold dark conservatory at the back of the house, where her aunt’s orange trees stood in their great tubs and the moonlight came in silver through the glass.
She stood among the orange trees and pressed both hands over her mouth and shook. She did not know how long she stood there. 5 minutes?
10? Long enough for the worst of the shaking to pass. Long enough to hear behind her the soft sound of the conservatory door opening and closing again.
“Please go away,” she said without turning around.
“I have been away for 12 years,” the Duke said. “I find I have no more talent for it.”
She turned. He was standing by the door, a tall dark shape against the glass, not coming any nearer.
“You should not be here,” she said. “My aunt will be furious. People will talk.”
“People are already talking. I made very certain of that.”
He paused.
“I did not mean to distress you, Eleanor. I had a great many fine speeches prepared, and then your aunt said what she said, and they all laughed and you smiled as if you were used to it.”
May you like
His voice roughened.
“I could not bear it. I’m sorry. I should have waited.”
