"No," Charles said. "They are usually more inclined to enjoy it."
"I did not enter into this arrangement for enjoyment."
"I am aware," Charles replied. "That is precisely what makes it so interesting."
"There is nothing interesting about it."
"You have married a woman who, by your own admission, alters the behavior of your sister without effort, manages your household without instruction, and presents herself in public as though the arrangement were entirely natural," Charles said. "You could be more pleased than you are. That is all that I am saying."
"Pleasure is not a requirement."
"No," Charles agreed. "But it is not a disadvantage, either. I do not know why you cannot simply allow yourself to be loved. It would not kill you."
But it would. Julian knew that better than anyone. He turned away again, resuming his pace. The path stretched ahead of them, steady, predictable, unchanged.
His thoughts did not follow the same pattern.
They returned, without invitation, to the same points Charles had raised. Eleanor in the garden, her ease with Lily. Eleanor at dinner, her composure, her ability to move within expectation without appearing constrained by it.
He had already considered all of this. He had already determined that it was proof that she made for a good little wife.
And yet the thought did not settle there. Beside him, Charles glanced over once more, as though waiting for something further. Julian did not offer it.
Which, in itself, he supposed was an answer.
CHAPTER 11
The sitting room was quiet, the late morning light falling cleanly across the windows.
Eleanor sat near the small table by the fire, a cup of tea untouched in her hand, her attention resting more on just how quiet everything was, and how pleasant she felt to be in such a place. There had always been something so comforting about being alone, she considered, though it was rarely ever possible.
There was always someone that needed her, or at least needed her attention to be on them. She had never been able to simplybe, which she supposed was one of the benefits of her marriage.
Then the door knocked, promptly ending her time alone.
"Come in," Eleanor said.
The door opened, and a younger lady’s maid stepped inside.
"Lady Rosamund Fairleigh is here, my lady," she explained. "She says that you have invited her."
Eleanor had, of course, done no such thing. She had little intention of letting anyone step into her household that she did not know, but she had to admit that it was a bold move, and one that she respected. The sensible part of her wanted to send the girl away, but another part of her knew that deep down she wanted to know why she was there.
"Indeed, I did." Eleanor lied, rising to her feet. "She may come in."
The servant gave a quick nod, and then she was gone. Moments later, she returned with her guest. Lady Rosamund entered as though she already knew the room. There was no uncertainty in her step, no pause to take in her surroundings. She was perfectly at ease, as though the household was her own.
"Lady Harrowby," she greeted softly.
"Lady Rosamund," Eleanor replied, rising to greet her. "You are most welcome."
"I hope I do not intrude.
"Not at all. I must say, it would seem that I forgot that I invited you here today."
"That is quite alright. You have been rather busy of late, so I will not expect too much of you."
Eleanor studied the young lady before her. She was beautiful, there was no doubting that, but there were gentle creases already forming at her brow where she had been scowling so often.
