Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Three Days Ago

“Go, bid the soldiers shoot.”

Eleanor leaned forward in her seat, peering over the ornate railing of their box at the illustrious Drury Lane Theatre, her gaze fixed on the stage. The curtains gracefully came down, and the play’s ending left an almost bittersweet taste on her tongue. Immediately, the rumble of applause could be heard. A wave of shouts and hollers echoed off the walls.

Philip, her brother, looked less than enthused by the evening’s entertainment, while her friends, Grace and Diana, seemed to be relieved that the play had finally ended. But Eleanor wished it would replay again, and again.

She had always loved the theater, even more so since her debut. It was a stark contrast to the constant outings, parties, and stream of social visits that she had endured. This, at least, was something she enjoyed, and she was determined to savor the moment.

Seated beside Philip was the Marquess of Jameston, a man Eleanor could only barely tolerate, despite several previous encounters. There was an arrogance to him, one that did not truly benefit his station, and his demeanor had soured her mood quite fast. He rose from his seat, applauding so vigorously that one might assume he had written Hamlet himself.

Turning to Eleanor, he commented on the play in a smug tone. “Quite the performance! Though I find Elliston to be more suited, would not you say, Lady Eleanor? A classic portrayal of the human condition.” He nodded in approval of his own comment, though the way he said it sounded almost rehearsed.

Eleanor offered a polite smile, wary of engaging in conversation with the marquess, lest he ruin her enjoyable evening even more. Yet, his next words seemed to shatter her inward composure.

“But what would a lady such as yourself know about it, truly?”

Her patience was wearing extremely thin, ready to snap. Her forced smile did not reach her eyes as she tilted her head, somehow maintaining a hint of elegance despite her building annoyance. Through her spectacles, she studied the man, taking in his appearance and posture.

The Marquess of Jameston was a short man, but the lines of lean muscles were visible beneath his clothes. His hairline had receded, creating a false peak on the center of his forehead, but he was dressed suitably for a man of his station. He had never been outright cruel with his words, but the way he spoke to her had always left her feeling jaded.

Eleanor had had enough of it.

“Do you recall the soliloquy in Act III, scene I, my lord?”

The marquess blinked, caught off guard by her unexpected question. His face flushed ever so slightly, enough for her to notice and relish the sight.

“Ah, well, I…”

“Or perhaps the symbolism behind, ‘To be or not to be’?”

Eleanor could feel her brother’s eyes on her, silently chastising her for losing her temper, but she pressed on, her tone remaining cool and composed. She did not doubt that he would have some words for her later, but for the time being, she would savor this feeling of triumph.

The marquess stumbled over his words, unable to formulate a coherent response to her prodding. It was clear to Eleanor that she had struck a nerve, and from the look on the man’s face, she had struck a painful one. She could have let it go, apologized for speaking out of turn, but the urge to press on felt almost overwhelming.

“But what would a lady such as myself know about it, truly?”

“Eleanor,” Philip hissed under his breath, his warning unheeded.

“Certainly more than a man who has not read a single line of Hamlet.” Eleanor offered a sweet smile and batted her eyelashes, feigning the image that the marquess no doubt expected of a young woman—pretty and dim— quiet, while hanging on his every word.

At her side, Grace and Diana were watching with wide eyes. It was not the first time they had seen her refuse to bite her tongue, but even she knew she had taken things further than she usually would. And such words directed toward a marquess, no less!

“Eleanor, perhaps we shall excuse ourselves,” Diana suggested, her voice barely above a whisper and strained over the din of countless other voices in the theater. Her face was flushed pink, and she was surely uncomfortable with what had happened.

Eleanor felt a pang of guilt, not for her reaction to the marquess’s words, but for making her dear friend feel this way. She looked over at the other two women and offered a sympathetic smile; a look that said, I am sorry.

Turning, she looked back once more at the marquess, her expression shifting to one of bored contempt. “It was a pleasure discussing the play with you, my lord,” she said, with a brief curtsy, before turning on her heel and making for the exit.

She did not look back as she walked away, her head held high.

Suddenly, she heard laughter from the corner of the box. Eleanor stopped walking and slowly turned her head to the sound, her curiosity piqued. Behind her round, thick lenses, she let her eyes sweep over the faces until they settled on the devious smile of a man.

He was unlike any man she had ever seen—strikingly handsome, captivating in a way that made her blink, as if his attractive appearance were some trick of the eye or an illusion. And his eyes were fixed on her.

Eleanor did well to recognize those at court, but this man was a stranger to her eyes. She was certain she did not know his name. Even sitting, it was obvious that he was tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame. And she was sure she would remember such a giant of a man.

Just who is he?

She watched as he stood up from his seat, easily towering over everyone else in the box. His movements were full of grace, even as he sauntered over to her. Each step made her stomach flutter and her heart hammer in her chest.

No one had ever had such an effect on her, and it was enough to leave her feeling uneasy. This man had no business being so unnerving, so threatening, and yet she was completely drawn to him.

“Forgive me,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of disapproval without the usual sharpness. “I fail to see the humor in the play. Perhaps the context was lost on you? It is a tragic tale.”

He held her gaze with a smirk, his eyes lingering on her as if she were some enigmatic, otherworldly entity. As if she were his muse for the night. His emerald-green eyes twinkled in the glow of the candlelight, like jewels meant to be worn by a queen.

As he leaned in, she detected a subtle scent—hints of cedar and perhaps a touch of citrus. If anything, it alerted her of his proximity, but she felt emboldened and did not dare to step away.

Tilting her chin up, she faced him with a raised eyebrow. “Sir?”

He is too close. Who does he think he is to act in so familiar a way?

Not even men she tolerated—even those whose company she enjoyed—would dare to be so brazen. And yet this stranger took no issue with his closeness, and if he was aware of it, he did not seem to care at all.

For once, she wished her brother would intervene, but she suspected that he was busy stroking the marquess’s bruised ego. Eleanor maintained her composure, refusing to show how discomforted she was by this man. But her heart was thundering louder than any applause, and she was slowly becoming convinced that he could hear the sound of it, much like a drum with a frantic pace.

“It was not the stage that garnered my amusement, but that mouth of yours,” he said in a voice only meant for her ears, his tone a whisper of velvet into which she felt she might melt.

His words sank into her, as did his gaze.

As Eleanor gathered what sense she had left, she could feel a retort rolling over her tongue, but as she opened her mouth, the man gracefully stepped away. Turning his back to her, leaving just a view of his broad shoulders and unruly dark auburn hair. She watched as he moved for the door, before disappearing into the audience.

Just who was that man?

Eleanor let go of the breath she did not know she had been holding, feeling the tension in her body slip away in an instant. Her mind was reeling with questions, and for once, she had been rendered completely speechless.

“Eleanor, are you feeling quite well? You seem a bit… flushed.”

She blinked and turned to face Diana, who was watching her with a worried expression on her pretty, round face.

Slowly, Eleanor shifted her gaze back to where the man had vanished. “Diana, do you happen to know who that man is?”

Diana craned her neck, scanning the crowd with a slight furrow on her brow. “I’m afraid I do not see the man to whom you’re referring,” she said after a moment, a puzzled frown on her face. “Do you mean the marquess?”

Eleanor shook her head. “No, not him.”

“I’m afraid I do not know, then.”

There was a hint of frustration coloring Eleanor’s tone. “It is of no real consequence,” she said, more to herself than Diana. “I do not suspect I will see him again.”

The carriage was new, a sumptuous and yet stifling thing. Mahogany panels lined the interior walls, with intricate carvings of ivy that stretched from floor to ceiling. Eleanor stared at them, tracing the shapes with her eyes as the wheels rolled down the road, her body swaying with the bumps and movements of the carriage.

Grace had been dropped off first, though she made it clear she would have liked to have taken a walk through Vauxhall. But Philip was in no mood for such, not after what had happened with the marquess.

Philip did well to keep his temper under check, maintaining a cool but polite demeanor with the other two ladies present. But the moment Diana was inside her own home, he turned to Eleanor with a deep-set frown. His eyes narrowed, and he simply shook his head.

“Careful, brother, looks like that can truly age a man,” Eleanor said in a bored tone, meeting his gaze without blinking.

She did not fear Philip in the slightest, and she had grown so accustomed to his disapproval that it felt like a slight mist on her conscience.

His steely gaze was still fixed on her, his brow furrowing. “Eleanor, your conduct toward the marquess was less than acceptable,” he chided, his voice a cold echo within the tight, confined space.

She knew he was tired, too tired to argue, and she felt much the same.

She turned her gaze to the window and sighed. “I will keep that in mind next time The Marquess of Jameston blesses me with his opinions.”

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips. “Defending yourself is one thing, but you took too much pleasure in making a fool of the man. He looked mortified when you walked away.”

“Perhaps you are right, Philip,” she admitted as she pushed the curtain aside, peering into the night.

The streetlights had been lit, casting circular glows on their posts, and she could see other carriages rolling down the streets.

She watched as a couple walked side-by-side, without an escort no less. It would be a scandal if she herself were to ever stroll leisurely with a man, especially at this hour.

Eleanor sighed, pressing her forehead against the glass. Her mind, as much as she willed it not to, seemed to return to the stranger in the box.

Will I see him again? Surely, if he was a member of the ton, I would have seen him before…

If he had been there, in that very same box, he was likely someone of importance or had some wealthy connections. She considered asking her brother about the stranger, but based on his already sour mood, she thought better of it. There was no point in lingering on the subject.

“This does little to enhance your desirability, Eleanor,” Philip warned.

“What does?” she asked, refusing to look back at him.

The glass against her skin was cold, and a fog formed, misting the window before her eyes. No doubt she looked ridiculous doing so, but she was not inclined to stop just yet. She was exhausted, with half a mind to nap on the journey back home.

“Eleanor.” Philip’s voice was only slightly desperate. And she had noticed that shift in him as of late, working long hours, managing the accounts of the estate, and, of course, forming connections in the hope that some eligible suitor would steal her away—while making calls to unmarried young ladies, in the hope of securing a wife for himself.

She looked back at him, raising an eyebrow. There was something about his tone, something that felt almost foreboding. She shifted on the plush bench, her gown rustling around her. Under the flickering glow of the lantern, she could glimpse something behind his eyes.

“What are you not telling me, brother?” she asked firmly.

Philip hesitated. “Sooner rather than later, I will need to marry and produce an heir. But before I can even consider that, I need to make sure that you are well taken care of.”

“I am well taken care of now.” She frowned.

“You know as well as I do what I mean.”

Eleanor watched him, saying nothing. She already knew she would not care much for what he planned to say next. But a sense of dread was churning in her stomach.

She knew exactly what he meant. After all, it was the whole purpose of her existence.

“Like it or not, you are not getting younger. At first, your smart mouth might have been charming to some, but now it has grown foul. At this rate, you will become an old spinster.”

“And what is wrong with that?”

“You need to find a husband,” he insisted firmly.

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “I do not need⁠—”

“You have until the end of the Season to find a suitable match,” he said, leaving no room for arguments. There was a finality in his tone and his expression. He was all too serious, and it seemed to be weighing upon him.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “Or else?”

“I will pick one for you, without consulting you.”