Morning Revelations
Eleanor woke tothe gentle sounds of someone moving quietly about the library, accompanied by the welcome aroma of tea and toasted bread. She lay still for a moment, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the lingering warmth of the dying fire. Then memory returned: the abandoned estate, their makeshift accommodations, the night spent in Damien’s protective embrace.
Heat flooded her cheeks as fragments of an intensely vivid dream surfaced in her consciousness. She’d been pressed against him, moving with desperate urgency while he whispered her name in that rough voice that made her pulse race. The memory was so visceral that her body responded anew, and she became acutely aware of the uncomfortable dampness between her thighs.
Mortification washed over her as she realized the implications. Had she… had her unconscious self actually acted upon those dream impulses? The evidence of her body’s response suggested something embarrassingly intimate had occurred, even if only in sleep.
“Good morning,” Damien’s voice carried across the room, carefully cheerful. “I’ve managed to procure some breakfast from our provisions.”
Eleanor sat up slowly, arranging her skirts with as much dignity as she could muster while avoiding his gaze. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
When she finally looked at him, she was struck by how tired he appeared. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and there was a tension in his shoulders that spoke of a sleepless night. Had he been awake while she…? It wasn’t obvious, was it? The thought made her want to disappear entirely.
Yet Damien behaved as though nothing unusual had occurred, presenting her with tea and bread with the same courteous attention he might show any guest. His careful normalcy only heightened her awareness of what had passed between them in the dark hours—or what she feared might have passed.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked, then immediately regretted the question.
“Well enough,” he replied diplomatically, though his appearance suggested otherwise. “The library proved quite comfortable.”
As she sipped her tea and nibbled at the simple breakfast, Eleanor found herself studying him with new eyes. The way his hands tended the fire, the unconscious grace of his movements, the stubbles along his jaw—all of it combined to create an awareness so acute it was almost painful.
This was dangerous territory. She was beginning to crave his touch, to imagine what it might be like if those large hands explored her body with the same gentle skill he’d shown in warming her fingers.
Why are you refusing him?a treacherous voice whispered in her mind.You’re married to him, attracted to him, and he clearly desires you.
The answer came immediately: her hard-won independence. The fortune she’d fought to protect from Abram’s machinations couldn’t be surrendered lightly, even to a man who made her pulse race. And beyond the financial considerations lay deeper fears—could she trust Damien with her welfare? What if his devotion to Dominic led him to spend everything they had?
Moreover, she was likely being foolish to read significance into one night of shared warmth. Regardless of his denial, she found it difficult to accept that he hadn’t bedded other women during his nocturnal searches in London’s underworld. She had to be simply the convenient female body sharing his makeshift bed last night.
The thought stung more than it should have, and Eleanor mentally shook herself. Such girlish romantic notions had no place in her world.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats interrupted her brooding. “That will be the village men,” Damien said, moving to the window. “Right on time, despite the rain.”
Eleanor watched him straighten his shoulders and assume the bearing of a duke addressing his people. When he opened the door to admit three weather-beaten men, his entire demeanor shifted to one of quiet authority tempered with genuine warmth.
“Garrett, Morrison, young Jamie,” he greeted each by name. “Thank you for coming out in this weather.”
The men’s faces lit up with obvious pleasure at seeing him. “Your Grace,” the eldest said, removing his cap. “Good to see you back. How long are you staying this time?”
“Long enough to see proper repairs begun,” Damien replied. “Gentlemen, may I present my wife, the Duchess of Westmore.”
The men looked startled—clearly, they hadn’t expected to encounter a duchess in the ruins of the estate. Eleanor rose, acknowledging their awkward bows with a warm smile.
“Your Grace,” the man called Garrett managed. “We heard you’d married, but…”
“But didn’t expect to find her here surveying damage with me?” Damien’s tone held gentle amusement. “Her Grace has considerably more sense about practical matters than I do. I’d like her to hear our plans.”
Eleanor felt a flutter of surprise at being included so naturally in what she’d assumed would be masculine business discussions. Most men would have dismissed their wives to tend to feminine concerns while important matters were decided.
“How’s young Peter, Morrison?” Damien continued. “Still determined to apprentice with the blacksmith?”
“Aye, Your Grace, and grateful for your recommendation. Mr. Harris speaks highly of the boy’s progress.”
As the conversation continued, Eleanor observed how Damien inquired after each man’s family with genuine interest, remembering wives’ names and children’s circumstances. This wasn’t the polite but distant concern of a nobleman performing his duty—this was authentic care for people he’d known since boyhood.
A commotion at the door announced the arrival of an enthusiastic puppy, who bounded into the library leaving muddy paw prints across the marble floor and, unfortunately, Damien’s breeches.
“Rufus, no!” young Jamie called, mortified. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace—”