Eleanor
The atmosphere was thick and heavy with tension, an invisible weight pressing down on every breath. I felt utterly invisible at the dinner table, overlooked by the two new guests as if I were nothing at all. I couldn't quite understand the reason for Lady Harriet's disdain—she insisted the ball was to be held in my honor as the future Duchess, yet her every gesture contradicted her words. When I tried to join in conversation, she would barely acknowledge me, her gaze cold as if I were no more than a speck of dust. I found myself wondering whether I really did outrank her, or whether I simply didn't deserve her respect in her eyes.
"What day would be best, do you think?" Lady Harriet asked her brother, her voice cool and measured.
"Which day do you prefer, sister?" Lord Alexander replied, courteous but distant.
"As you've already begun the preparations, perhaps we should hold the ball before the twentieth of November. That way we'll have time to make arrangements for the wedding without feeling rushed."
Tonight, the entire meal was dominated by talk of the ball and the wedding. Only now did I learn, from the conversation between these siblings, just how much Lady Harriet loved grand affairs. She was clearly well-versed in hosting important gatherings at the estate. I remained silent, too wary to offer my opinion on my own wedding, afraid to cross this formidable woman by accident.
Lord Alexander sat at the head of the table as always, while the two ladies took the opposite side, seated where Lord Barnett once sat.
"What do you think?" Lord Alexander suddenly turned to me, catching me off guard.
"Would… the seventeenth do?" I blurted, the words escaping before I had time to think.
"And you, sister?" he asked Lady Harriet.
"If you are content with it, I have no reason to object."
"Then it's settled," Lord Alexander concluded.
"The ball will be held on the seventeenth." The decision was made with the date I had chosen.
I could immediately sense the icy disapproval radiating from the two women, their eyes flashing with displeasure that he had sided with me so openly.
"How are your children?" Lord Alexander asked, changing the subject.
"They're all grown, some have married before you even thought of it," Lady Harriet replied with a wry laugh.
He chuckled, agreeing easily.
I realized then that I didn't remember the Leveson-Gower family's history as clearly as I should. If Lady Harriet was sixty-two this year, then her eight children must be in their thirties or forties—just about the same age as Lord Alexander himself. Reflecting on all that he'd told me, it seemed certain he truly was the son of Her Grace Georgiana. There must be some discrepancy in the historical record, something that erased him from official accounts. Perhaps that was the reason I'd been sent back to this time: to find the truth.
After dinner, I hurried back to my room, not wanting to spend another minute in their company. I was annoyed to see Lady Beatrice casting flirtatious glances at Lord Alexander, but I trusted him completely. He would never betray me or act improperly.
More urgently, I wanted to decipher the message hidden in the book. I set it down on the desk beside my bed, lighting a candle to make the letters clear. The handwriting was tiny, twisting and difficult to read:
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I love you, my Lord Alexander. Though I am condemned as a woman of divided heart, tainted and faithless, my heart has belonged to you and you alone. Even if the words of love I utter to you drag my soul down to perdition before long, I will still love you steadfastly, without faltering. I beg God, Creator of heaven and earth, to let us meet again in another life; to let you love only me; to keep your promise always. I take back what I once wished for: that you would find your true love in another. I wish to be the only one who possesses your heart. And I believe, with all my soul, that someday we will be reunited in each other's arms, if not in this life, then in the next.
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So this was her farewell—a lover's confession, as I suspected. Yet I could not understand her words about her soul being dragged into the underworld by her confession of love. One thing, however, was now certain: Lady Chelsea had never truly loved Leo, not the way some believed. I was sure Lord Alexander had never found this message. If he had, he would have closed his heart again, shutting me out.
Her words seemed so selfish. Once, in an earlier diary, she had written that she hoped he would find the true love that would set him free from the past. Now, in this final confession, she commanded that he love no one but her—even from beyond the grave, binding him to his promise. How was it that fate sent me to love him after all this?
Was I not meant to be his true companion? Why, then, did it hurt so much?
My hands clenched until my nails dug painfully into my palms, jealousy burning in my chest. I never realized I could feel such a fierce, desperate envy. I vowed then and there never to let him see this message—never. If she could be selfish, so could I. I would claim him for myself, do everything I could to open his heart to me, and make him forget her—completely.
✽ ✽ ✽
The sweet resonance of violin and piano-forte filled the grand halls, the music drifting so powerfully that even the gardeners outside paused in their work to listen. Lord Alexander had arranged for a troupe of masterful musicians to come to Chatsworth and rehearse with us—so that we might serve as the opening pair for the upcoming ball, only two days away.
Now, as afternoon sunlight streamed in golden bands across the polished wooden floor, it was only Lord Alexander and I, turning and stepping in rhythm, our hands clasped, the air thick with a shy, exhilarating tension. My noble partner—who once moved with such easy grace—fumbled more than once, his attention wandering, as if some weighty trouble clung to him.
"Ow!"
"My apologies. I did not mean that," he said, after his foot landed heavily on mine—a rare lapse for so skilled a dancer.
"Is something troubling you? You seem out of sorts today," I ventured, my voice soft with worry.
"It is nothing for you to be concerned about." He dismissed it with a wave, though the lines of tension in his brow only deepened.
For a while longer, we practiced, and at last Lord Alexander seemed to shed his distraction. He found the beat, leading with confidence, his movements returning to their familiar, elegant precision. When he took me in his arms, guiding me close against his chest, I glanced up and was caught by his eyes—intense, longing, as if he saw no one else in the world. My heart beat a wild, frantic rhythm. I tried to step away, to find space to breathe, but he drew me even closer, his arm encircling my waist until I felt utterly undone.
We moved as one, so close I could sense the warmth of his breath and the pulse of his heart beneath layers of emerald-green wool. The scent of his cologne—woodsy, dark, and intoxicating—rose between us, mingling with the heady notes of music and polished floors. My face grew warm, my thoughts tangled with longing and desire. For the first time, I felt the keen edge of want—a yearning not just for his affection but for the shelter of his arms, for the thrill of being wholly his. I lowered my gaze, embarrassed by the flush I knew colored my cheeks.
"Are you all right?" he asked, bringing me abruptly back to earth.
"Just… it feels a little too close," I murmured, and he obliged, releasing me gently, though I could not say how much he sensed of what I truly felt.
We ended with a pose—his hand firm at my waist, my back pressed lightly against him, his eyes meeting mine with a desperate tenderness that startled me. Was it my imagination, or did Lord Alexander truly yearn for me as I did for him? If so, then our feelings, at long last, were no longer unrequited.
"That is enough practice for today," he said at last, his voice a little rough.
"Would you care to join me for a walk?" he asked, almost shyly.
I could only nod, scarcely believing that he had invited me himself.
We walked together out into the garden, following the winding path beyond the rose arbors. Lord Alexander quietly instructed the staff to give us privacy, and I could not help but wonder if he was planning something. He led me to a secluded pavilion at the edge of the grounds.
"There is something I wish to give you. Turn around," he said softly.
I obeyed, heart pounding with anticipation. He gathered my hair gently, sweeping it over my left shoulder, his fingers grazing my skin.
"Hold this, please," he whispered at my ear.
I complied, clutching my hair while his arms moved around me—not in an embrace, but as if to fasten something about my neck. I closed my eyes, breath trembling, and felt the cool touch of metal at my throat. When I lifted my fingers to it, I realized he had fastened a pendant—a delicate silver chain, with a beautiful gemstone resting at my collarbone.
I let my hair fall and turned to face him, wide-eyed. He gazed at me with such open, gentle admiration that I felt the last of my shyness vanish. He remained composed, hands at his sides, but there was a softness in his gaze that left me giddy.
"This is for you. A gift," he said.
"Thank you… Is it for any particular occasion?" My voice quivered with emotion.
"Your birthday passed not long ago, did it not? I gave you nothing then. I happened upon this pendant yesterday in Derby and thought of you," he replied.
My heart soared—never had I known such joy. I wanted so desperately to tell him everything that churned inside me: the hope, the longing, the helpless delight. The words pressed against my lips, desperate to be spoken.
"There is something I wish to tell you!" I burst out.
"What is it?" he asked, surprised.
"I… I think—"
"There you are!"
Before I could finish, Lady Beatrice appeared, her arrival as sudden as a stormcloud, sweeping up to Lord Alexander and interrupting us without the least hesitation.
"My aunt asked me to fetch you. She has questions about the guest list."
"I understand. I must go, then. Forgive me, my lady," he said, taking his leave. Lord Alexander offered me a final glance—one that lingered with meaning—before he strode away, leaving me alone with Lady Beatrice.
She cast me a scornful look, her gaze settling on the new pendant at my neck.
"How enviable. I never would have guessed that His Grace would bestow a gift upon someone such as you," she said, her tone dripping with disdain.
"What do you mean? Why should Lord Alexander not give me such a gift?" I replied, my fingers clutching the pendant protectively, my hands trembling.
"You truly do not see it, do you? How you are regarded with disgust by so many. You are the sister of a disgraced former fiancée—the one who brought scandal upon the Cavendish name. If His Grace William had not insisted upon this match, I would have been the one standing here at his side. I should have been the Duchess. It was my right."
Her words were poison—cruel and sharp as thorns. Jealousy twisted her features, bitterness rising to the surface at last. She flounced away, only to turn and deliver one final barb:
"No matter what happens, it should be I who becomes Duchess of Devonshire. Remember that. Not you."
And so the reason for Lady Harriet's contempt became clear—her loathing, the pointed coldness, the humiliation at every turn. It was not just my own supposed unworthiness, but the stain left by Lady Chelsea's disgrace; the hope that her niece, not I, would inherit the Cavendish legacy.
But whatever the past or their secret plots, Lord Alexander had chosen me. And for now, that was all that truly mattered.
✽ ✽ ✽
Time seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and the grand day of the ball had arrived before I knew it. It had already been five days since Lillian left for London, and though she had promised to write, not a single letter had reached me. I could not help but worry for her—wondering what fortune or misfortune she might encounter in that distant city—yet there was nothing I could do but wait. It would have been unthinkable to abandon my own wedding preparations and rush after her, so I sat composing a letter home, hoping for some word from her soon, or, best of all, her safe return to this house as she had promised.
"My lady, your gown is ready," Mrs. Atherton, my caretaker, announced. I stood still as the maids gathered around to help me disrobe, then dressed me in an exquisite cream silk gown, more sumptuous than any I had ever worn. The dress shimmered with delicate threads of gold that caught the light with every movement, like petals kissed by moonlight. Every stitch and seam was perfectly concealed, every lace detail stitched with tiny silver sequins and sparkling diamonds, forming intricate patterns of climbing roses along the bodice.
My waist was cinched with a corset, shaping me in the fashion befitting a noblewoman. The skirt fanned out in layered waves, like a cascade of blossoms from the garden, and my hair was swept up and pinned with combs studded with iridescent pearls. A delicate golden coronet rested atop my head, adorned with crystal filigree, and diamonds glittered at my throat, lending brilliance to my pale complexion. Tonight's ball was to honor me alone; ordinary attire would not do.
"You look breathtaking, my lady," Mrs. Atherton said, beaming with pride.
"Thank you," I replied, genuinely grateful for her care and attention.
"It is my honor," she murmured, curtseying deeply.
As I gazed at my reflection, I felt a wave of anticipation. Soon, I would be recognized as the rightful wife of the man I loved. Though some might try to steal his affection, Lord Alexander remained resolutely distant from every woman, even from me. At times, his reticence left me yearning for some clearer sign of his heart, but never once had he uttered the words I most wished to hear.
The sound of lutes and violins floated through the corridors, beckoning me onward. I lifted my skirts and made my way toward the grand ballroom, where noblemen and ladies awaited their first glimpse of the future Duchess of Devonshire. Lord Alexander himself stood waiting at the entrance to the ballroom, resplendent in full regalia—his black velvet coat adorned with gold embroidery, the three-headed stag of Cavendish glimmering on his sleeve. Beneath his cloak, he wore a cream silk waistcoat with a subtle lily motif, his shirt starched white and his cravat secured by a ruby and gold pin, a family heirloom.
His trousers, tailored from the finest cashmere by a Savile Row master, fit perfectly, and his black shoes shone to a mirror finish. At his waist gleamed a silver belt buckle, and pure white gloves completed the ensemble. He was a vision of power and nobility, a figure to be remembered in any heart.
Lord Alexander's gaze did not waver as he looked upon me, nor did mine falter as I met his eyes. He extended his hand for me to take, pressed a gentle kiss upon my fingers, and murmured,
"You are radiant, my lady. I am honored."
"Thank you," I replied softly, blushing.
"It is time. Are you ready?"
"I am ready."
With that, he led me through the doors, into the midst of the waiting crowd, as the herald announced our arrival in a booming voice:
"His Grace, Lord Alexander Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire—and Lady Eleanor Barnett, daughter of Lord Percival Barnett, Marquis of Wexford."
It had been so long since I'd heard my full name spoken aloud. This time, though, I was not announced alone, but at his side for all to see.
We entered the center of the ballroom and assumed our places for the opening dance. Lord Alexander's hand rested at my waist, his fingers entwined with mine.
"There is no need to be nervous. Just look at me," he whispered, sensing my trembling.
I nodded, fixing my gaze on him and letting the clamor of the crowd fade into nothingness. As the familiar melody swelled from the orchestra, he guided me through each step, and for those moments, it was as if only the two of us existed. Our feet moved in perfect time, his arms steady and sure. I could no longer contain the feelings I had held in for so long.
As the first dance ended, the rest of the couples swept onto the floor. In the midst of the swirling gaiety, instinct overtook reason. When Lord Alexander leaned in to support me through a final dip, I reached up and, with all restraint cast aside, pressed my lips softly to his.
He started in shock, his eyes wide, but he quickly helped me to my feet, his brow furrowed as if deep in thought.
"My lady, forgive me," he said quietly, before turning away and slipping out onto the terrace.
The pain of his retreat stabbed deep within me. I clutched my chest, breathless with remorse and confusion, and followed him outside, desperate for answers.
"Was I wrong to do that?" My voice trembled. "You must know how I feel about you, even if I've never said it. Anyone could see it—even when I sat out in the rain and fell ill, it was for you…"
He turned away, hand shielding his face, his voice harsh with sorrow.
"We cannot be more than this. You know it! How many times must I say it?"
"Then tell me, truthfully—do you feel nothing for me?" I demanded, tears stinging my eyes.
He looked back at me, torn, struggling to contain the anguish in his voice.
"My lady, it does not matter how you feel, or how I feel. Let me make it clear, once and for all—our relationship cannot become anything more."
"Why do you cling to your promise to my late sister? Why do you refuse to open your heart to me? I am here now, chosen to stand at your side. She is gone, and yet you refuse to accept me—though I know you feel as I do!"
"You do not understand, Eleanor!" His voice rose, pain etched in every syllable. "There are chains that bind my fate—more terrible than you can imagine. There are reasons I cannot love you."
I could not comprehend his meaning; I heard nothing but the shattering of my own heart.
"Is it because I am not her?" I whispered. Tears spilled down my cheeks and I turned away, fleeing through the corridors until I reached the sanctuary of the library.
Behind me, I heard his voice calling, "Eleanor! Wait!"
But as I glanced back, I caught a glimpse of Lady Beatrice approaching him, her hand on his arm, detaining him. I had no desire to look back again. My sorrow was punishment enough.
The silence of the library was broken by my sobs. I pulled the heavy jewels from my neck, leaving only the simple pendant he had given me, clutching it tight in my trembling hand as I buried my face in my arms.
"Oh God, why have you sent me such an impossible love? What have I done to deserve this punishment?" I whispered, looking up at the cold, unfeeling moon.
Suddenly, the door creaked open and slammed shut. I looked up, foolishly hoping he had come after me. But I was mistaken.
"I need a word with you," came a cold voice from the shadows.
It was Lady Harriet, resplendent in lavender silk. I wiped my tears and stood.
"What is it you want from me?" I asked, frustration coloring my tone.
She approached until she stood just near enough for a private conversation.
"I want you to break off your engagement," she said flatly.
What cruel trick was this? Was it not enough to be tormented by the dead—now the living must do so as well?
"I beg your pardon?" My sorrow gave way to anger and disbelief.
"I want you to withdraw from this marriage. I want Lord Alexander to marry my niece, Lady Beatrice, not you."
"How could I do that? This marriage was commanded by the Queen herself—and it was His Grace William's wish."
"If you refuse, the match will be called off just the same," she insisted.
How self-serving she was. If I yielded, it would be my family who suffered disgrace—not hers.
"I refuse," I replied, starting to leave.
But her next words halted me.
"If you marry him, there will be no heir. He has told you, has he not? He will not have children with you."
Her statement struck me dumb. I turned to face her once more.
"If he marries Beatrice, the Cavendish line will endure. I want an heir for our family."
"Is my family so loathsome to you?" I choked out. "Am I not a woman, as you are? Am I truly so unworthy that you must say such cruel things?"
She was silent for a long moment.
"He cannot have children with the sister of his late fiancée. Even if you marry him, you would only destroy the line."
So it all returned to Lady Chelsea. My existence seemed to be nothing more than a shadow of hers—I could not even give him a child.
"I refuse," I said again, more firmly, and left her behind, returning to the ballroom.
There, before me, was Lord Alexander, dancing with Lady Beatrice. Fresh tears fell. I knew it was only courtesy, yet reason could not soothe my breaking heart.
Why did he not come after me?
Why did he leave me to suffer alone?
Why did he choose to dance with her?
Alexander
You could never fathom the torment within my heart—the agony of being unable to yield to my own desires as I so deeply wished. Yes, you are right in your understanding. I do love you, Eleanor, just as you love me. But there is one thing you are mistaken about: it is not an old promise that keeps me from loving you. It is a dark curse that has claimed lives for generations—a curse that has haunted me since birth.
When you kissed me, my heart thundered with terror and longing. I wanted nothing more than to return your kiss, to answer your yearning with my own. But I feared the curse would awaken—that it would mark your soul before you even realized. When that time comes, all hope may be lost.
Even as other women tried to hold me back, please do not think me heartless for standing by while you suffered alone. My dearest, it is not cruelty that keeps me away; it is only that I cannot pursue you as my heart longs to do. Though my body may dance with another, my heart belongs to you alone. Even if I must endure the pain of seeing your eyes filled with sorrow as you watch me hold another woman in the dance, I cannot comfort you as you deserve. Forgive me, from the depths of my soul—I cannot give you the love you should have.
"I must take my leave, my lady," I said at last.
"Where are you going, your grace? We have yet to finish even a single dance together," Lady Beatrice protested.
"You are free to choose another lord as your partner, should you wish. I must excuse myself."
"Please, come back! It should be me you choose—not her!" she called after me. But I paid no heed to her cries.
I left Lady Beatrice behind the moment I saw Eleanor retreating into the darkness, and my mind was made up—I must find her. As I moved through the corridors, my sister passed me and spoke softly, "If you do not wish to see her die, then let her go."
Her words confused me deeply. One part of me wanted to follow Eleanor and soothe her anguish, but another wished for her to hate me, if only to keep her safe.
"You love her, and she loves you. The thin line that keeps you apart may soon shatter. Her life hangs by a thread," my sister whispered.
"I know that well enough! You needn't remind me!" I barked, unable to bear the truth she pressed upon me.
I searched for Eleanor everywhere and at last found her in her chamber, exhausted to the point of sleep, so deep she did not stir when I entered. I sat beside her, gently cupping her tear-stained cheek, gazing at the face of a woman shattered by all that had unfolded this night.
"I am sorry for the nightmare I have given you, my Eleanor," I murmured.
I bent to press a kiss upon her soft lips, the kiss she so longed for, though I could only grant it while she slept. My hand lingered at her neck, my lips grazing her skin, breathing in the delicate scent of her body. Desire surged through me, a longing so fierce it nearly overwhelmed all restraint.
Were it not for the obstacles that divide us, I would have claimed you as mine—I would have made you my own, body and soul. I want to touch every inch of you, to lose myself in you, to hear you call my name in the throes of passion each and every night.
I love you, and I wish I could say the words. But I cannot.
Forcing myself to break away, I turned to leave, fearing you might wake and find me here. But my gaze fell upon a book—the book I once gave your sister, the very one that bound me to the past. Strangely, after all these years devoted to Chelsea's memory, now it is only you, Eleanor, who fills my thoughts.
I opened the book and found a page marked, perhaps where you left off, but my eyes were drawn to handwriting in the margin. And as I read the message, I realized just how far I had wandered into forbidden territory. It was Chelsea's confession of love, a plea that I hold fast to my promise—that there would be none but her.
Tears I never thought I had left spilled over, streaming down my cheeks. I set the book gently on the table, stifling the sobs that rose from within. I had broken my vow to the woman who was gone, let myself fall for her sister, and now I had wounded both of you beyond repair. I, too, must suffer the agony of my own fate, for I am as bound and as broken as the hearts I have shattered.