As the maid departed, Eleanor sank into her chair, her earlier amusement completely extinguished. She’d been treating their conflict like a game of wits, but Damien had been playing an entirely different game—one with real stakes. His investigation into her business interests wasn’t casual curiosity; it was strategic intelligence gathering.
The man who’d applauded her musical torture with such good humor, who’d shown kindness to Tommy—that sameman had been systematically extracting information about her financial vulnerabilities behind her back. The charming facade was just that: a performance designed to lower her guard while he mapped her weaknesses.
Eleanor’s hands clenched in her lap. She’d been a fool to find his behavior endearing. A straightforward opponent would have confronted her directly about her business affairs. Instead, Damien had chosen deception, using her own servants’ loyalty against her.
The Duke of Westmore had just shown his true colors, and they were far more dangerous than she’d imagined.
His Grace’s Tentacles
The library wasDamien’s favorite room thus far in Eleanor’s—now his—London home. Two stories of books lined with mahogany shelves, rolling ladders to reach the highest volumes, comfortable leather chairs positioned near the windows for optimal reading light. It was the library of a family that valued knowledge above display.
He sat at the massive oak desk, ledgers spread before him, though his attention was more focused on the legal documents tucked between their pages. The documents were masterfully crafted as The Widow’s solicitors had done everything possible within the constraints of coverture law. But Damien’s signature had been a gentleman’s agreement rather than a binding constraint. As her husband, he retained absolute authority over every asset.
What impressed him more than the legal framework was Eleanor’s financial acumen since their proxy wedding. The ledgers revealed gradual but systematic recovery from Abram’s depredations—shrewd investments, careful economizing, strategic partnerships that aimed to rebuild what the solicitor had stolen. Her progress was impressive.
Remarkable enough that the restored funds could finance his entailed property’s complete renovation or support a comfortable life abroad for the time being. She’d given him back his choices—estate, exile, or whatever future he might envision.
Just as his heart filled with relief and gratitude, the door opened with a decisive click. Damien looked up to find his duchess standing in the doorway, her expression a careful mask of polite inquiry that didn’t quite hide the concern in her eyes.
“Ah, Eleanor. Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully. “Your musical society is quite unique. I particularly enjoyed the drum solo. Very innovative.”
Eleanor seemed momentarily thrown by his pleasant tone. “I’m glad you found it entertaining. Simmons mentioned you were reviewing the estate ledgers?”
Damien leaned back in the chair, deliberately casual. “Just familiarizing myself with our holdings. A duke should understand his responsibilities, don’t you agree?”
She advanced into the room, her gaze fixed on the open books. “Those are my private financial matters.”
“Technically, as your husband, they’re my financial matters.” He smiled to soften the words. “But as we agreed last night, they remain under your management. I’m merely educating myself.”
Eleanor reached the desk and glanced down at the open pages. “You’re reviewing the trust documents for the hospital.”
“Indeed. Fascinating structure. The Widow’s solicitors created a nearly impenetrable arrangement.” He tapped a paragraph with his finger. “Though I’ve noticed a potential vulnerability.”
That caught her attention. “Meaning?”
“The hospital’s protection depends entirely on the legitimacy of our proxy marriage documentation.” Damien pointed to a specific clause. “Our enemies could challenge certain technical aspects of how the paperwork was executed.”
Eleanor frowned. “What sort of technical aspects?”
“Witness qualifications, filing procedures, jurisdictional questions.” He turned a page in the documents. “For instance, I notice that one of the witnesses to the proxy ceremony appears to have signed with a mark rather than a full signature. A clever solicitor might question whether that person was qualified to serve as a legal witness.”
“Surely such minor details wouldn’t invalidate a marriage,” Eleanor protested. “Especially one involving a duke.”
“You’re right. My title would make such challenges extremely difficult. Another reason for me to stay,” Damien said. “But even a temporary legal question about the marriage’s validity could create complications for your hospital during the investigation. Delays in funding, questions about property ownership…”
Her expression grew troubled. “I hadn’t considered that angle.”
“Which brings me to a suggestion,” Damien said, closing the ledger. “We should attend Lady Harrington’s ball this Season.”
The sudden change of subject seemed to disorient her. “Lady Harrington’s… Is that absolutely necessary? Could we not be seen at Hyde Park?”
“To establish the legitimacy of our marriage,” he said reasonably, “a public appearance of import would make it considerably more difficult for anyone to claim our union is merely a legal fiction.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You cannot be merely concerned with protecting my interests.”
“Our interests align more than you’re willing to acknowledge,” he countered. “Besides, I’ve developed a particular dislike for your Mr. Abram based on what I’ve observed in these ledgers.”
“He’s not my Mr. Abram,” she corrected somewhat vehemently. “And I avoid the Season’s entertainments whenpossible. Nothing invites gossip quite like a widow whose circumstances have become reduced.”