The rain had thickened into a relentless curtain by the time Captain Julian Harrow settled into the high-backed chair across from Lord Reginald. The drawing room's fire sputtered, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but it did little to warm the chill that clung to Eleanor's bones. She stood apart from the others, arms crossed beneath her cloak, watching the scene unfold like a hawk perched above a battlefield.
Julian's presence dominated the room, not through bluster or bravado, but through a quiet intensity that seemed to pull the air toward him. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped as he listened to Reginald drone on about the estate's debts and the terms of their arrangement. Every so often, his gray eyes flicked to Eleanor, as if testing her resolve. She refused to flinch.
"…and with your fortune, Captain, we can restore Ashwood Manor to its former glory," Reginald was saying, his voice tinged with desperation. "The tenants need new roofs, the fields need seed—oh, and the east wing's roof has been leaking since Michaelmas. A disaster, truly."
Julian nodded, his expression unreadable. "I've reviewed the ledgers you sent. The situation is dire, I'll grant you that. But I'm no fool, Lord Ashwood. I'll not pour my coin into a sinking ship without assurances."
"Assurances?" Eleanor interjected, stepping forward. Her voice cut through the room like a blade. "What more do you want, Captain? My hand in marriage isn't enough?"
He turned to her, his gaze steady. "Your hand is a promise, Lady Eleanor. I want your commitment."
She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "Commitment? You speak as if I'm a soldier signing up for your crew, not a woman being bartered to save a pile of stones."
"Eleanor!" Reginald snapped, his face reddening. "Mind your tongue!"
But Julian raised a hand, silencing him. "Let her speak. I'd rather know her mind now than discover it too late."
Her eyes narrowed. "Very well. You want my commitment? Then tell me why a man like you—a decorated captain with wealth and prospects—would chain himself to a failing estate and a bride who'd rather see him drown than wed him."
A murmur of shock rippled through the room. Beatrice dropped her needlework, her mouth agape, while Pippa, hovering near the door, stifled a gasp. But Julian didn't blink. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"You think I'm here out of charity?" he said at last, his voice low. "Or perhaps some romantic whim? I assure you, Lady Eleanor, my reasons are my own. But if it eases your suspicions, I'll say this: Ashwood Manor sits on land I've coveted for years. The cliffs, the harbor—they're strategic. I've plans beyond your uncle's debts."
"Strategic?" She arched a brow. "What, are you planning to invade France from my back garden?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Not quite. But the war's left its mark, and I've learned to look ahead. This marriage secures more than your family's future—it secures mine."
The admission hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Eleanor's mind raced. He wasn't just a savior with a fat purse; he was a player in a game she hadn't yet mapped out. What did he mean by strategic? Was he still tied to the navy, despite the war's end? Or was there something darker at play?
Before she could press him, Reginald clapped his hands together, oblivious to the undercurrent. "Excellent! Then it's settled. We'll set the wedding for a fortnight hence—time enough to summon the vicar and mend Eleanor's gown."
"A fortnight?" Eleanor whirled on him. "You'd have me march to the altar before I've even unpacked his motives?"
"It's done, girl," Reginald growled. "You'll marry him, or we'll all be in the poorhouse by Christmas."
She opened her mouth to argue, but Julian's voice cut in, smooth as steel. "Give her a week."
Reginald blinked. "Pardon?"
"A week," Julian repeated, rising to his feet. He towered over the room, his presence commanding. "Let her decide if she can stomach me. I'll stay here, at Ashwood. If she refuses me after seven days, I'll walk away—no dowry, no debts paid."
Eleanor stared at him, caught off guard. "You'd risk your precious plans on my whims?"
"I'd risk them on your mettle," he replied, his eyes locking with hers. "Prove you're more than a spoiled heiress, and I'll prove I'm more than a fortune hunter. Deal?"
Her pulse thudded in her ears. It was a dare, plain and simple—a gauntlet thrown at her feet. She could refuse him now, let the estate crumble, and damn them all to ruin. Or she could take his wager, uncover his secrets, and find a way to turn this trap into her triumph.
"Deal," she said, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest.
Reginald sputtered, but Julian extended his hand. She hesitated, then clasped it, her fingers dwarfed by his calloused grip. His touch was warm, firm, and sent an unwelcome jolt through her. She pulled back quickly, masking it with a scowl.
"Good," he said, stepping back. "I'll have my things brought up from the carriage. Where am I to sleep?"
"The west wing," Beatrice piped up, recovering her composure. "It's the least drafty, and the view's lovely."
"Very well." He inclined his head to Eleanor. "Until tomorrow, then."
As he strode out, the room erupted into chaos—Reginald muttering about insolence, Beatrice giggling behind her hand, Pippa rushing to fetch the housekeeper. But Eleanor stood rooted, her mind a whirl. A week. Seven days to unravel Captain Julian Harrow. She didn't trust him, didn't like him, and certainly didn't intend to marry him without a fight.
That night, as the storm battered the manor, she paced her chamber, the candlelight dancing across the walls. Pippa had long since retired, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She stopped at the window, peering through the rain-streaked glass toward the west wing. A faint light glowed there—his room. What was he doing now? Plotting? Writing? Or simply staring back at her, as she was at him?
A knock startled her. She crossed to the door, expecting Pippa, but found a folded note slipped beneath it instead. Frowning, she picked it up and unfolded the crisp paper. The handwriting was bold, precise:
"Lady Eleanor,
If we're to play this game, let's play it well. Meet me at dawn by the cliffs. Bring your sharpest tongue—I'll bring mine.
—J.H."
Her breath caught. A challenge, already? She crumpled the note in her fist, a spark igniting in her chest. Dawn it would be, then. Let him think he held the upper hand. She'd show him just how wrong he was.