It is a pile of stones held together by ivy and debt. Tomorrow, everyone will see it. They will see the last, desperate daughter of a failed line tilting at windmills on a cart horse. They will pity you. And then, they will forget you. " She did not look up from the page. ""Good night, Julian. "" His silence was more menacing than his words.
He lingered for a moment, then was gone. Eleanor stared at the flickering flame of the candle. Pity was a weapon. She knew that. And tomorrow, she would be handing it to her enemies, loaded and aimed at her own heart.
But there was a difference between pity and respect. Pity was given to the weak. Respect was earned by the strong. And if she could not be elegant, or wealthy, or fashionable, then she would be strong. She would endure.
The morning of the hunt dawned cold and clear. The sky a pale, unforgiving blue. A hard frost silvered the fields, crunching under Perseus' heavy hooves, as they made their way down the long, rutted drive of Oakhaven. Eleanor sat astride, the man's saddle feeling solid and secure beneath her. She was cold, but her resolve was a fire in her belly.
The grounds of Blackwood Park were another world, a world of wealth, power, and effortless grace. Dozens of riders were assembled on the vast lawn before the great house, their mounts gleaming like polished chestnuts, their coats the colors of jewels. Laughter and bright chatter filled the air, plumes of breath misting in the cold. As Eleanor rode Perseus onto the lawn, a hush fell. It started near the gate and spread like a ripple in a pond.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned. The laughter did not stop, but its quality changed. It became quieter, sharper, aimed. She saw Julian, magnificent on a bay thoroughbred, holding court with a circle of fashionable ladies.
He caught her eye and gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. A pantomime of commiseration that was, in fact, pure triumph. Eleanor kept her gaze forward, her back straight. She guided Perseus to the edge of the crowd, taking her place near an old stone wall apart from the others. She felt the stares like physical things.
A woman on a plow horse. It was absurd. A joke. She knew it. But she would not let them see it break her.
Then he appeared. The Duke of Blackwood. He rode out from the stables on a stallion as black as midnight. A creature of fire and muscle that made every other horse on the lawn look common. The Duke himself was cast in the same mold.
Tall and severe with a face that looked as though it had been carved from granite. Dark hair, eyes the color of a winter storm, and a mouth that looked as if it had never learned to smile. He was power incarnate. His gaze swept across the assembled company, a king surveying his court. It passed over her, then snapped back.