His parents would have been ashamed of his decision to marry Gilbert off to a girl he didn’t know. Even before Jarrell came of age and was inducted into the Second Kingdom, his parents had impressed upon him the exigency of choice, of assent and acquiescence. Those weren’t only the virtues that guided the Kingdom. They also guided their family, and his parents made sure he and his brother had grown up surrounded by all the Enlightenment ideals that they held so dear.
Then, when it came time for him and Alexander to step into the world the Darthams had guarded for centuries, his parents made sure he and his brother both understood there could be no pleasure without philosophy—no indulgence without rules.
But then they died a year after Ajax joined the kingdom. And then his brother died, and Jarrell’s new bride two years after that, and it seemed like there was nothing left to indulge in, nothing left to guard. He’d retreated from the Kingdom and Far Hope itself and dreamed of an exile that would take him out of the reach of his memories forever.
A place where he could forget without also betraying the memory of the woman he’d loved before her death.
Jarrell pushed away from the crowd, scraping a hand over his face while he searched for a servant with a drink. Or better yet, an entire bottle. He was choked by his need, choked equally by the reasonable and civilized barriers to that need. Strangled by the tailored silk he’d donned for the ball and stifled by the ball itself—the largest crush of people he’d been in since Helena’s funeral.
And stifled also by memories. For when he saw all these people thronged and dancing in the star-ceilinged chamber, he could so vividly remember the time before. Before his wedding, before everyone died, when Far Hope was a convergence of primal urges and wicked wanderings. And he missed it, he realized with shock. He thirsted for it. For so long, the man he’d been had been buried under a cairn of grief, and now it was as if all the rocks had tumbled free, as if he’d somehow been alive all this time.
He wasn’t sure if he liked it.
Yes, a drink of something was called for in these circumstances. He needed to consider what to do next, and he always considered best with a drink in his hand. Plus it would smother the urge to sling his future niece-in-law over his shoulder and carry her off to be his wife instead of his nephew’s, which he couldn’t do for a thousand reasons, starting with his lack of knowledge about her wishes, and ending with this disastrous marriage he’d arranged.
Ending with the fact that you don’t want to betray Helena’s memory by marrying again.
He found a servant circulating with champagne and requested a glass of something stiff and amber-colored, and within a few minutes, his throat was burning but his head was clearer.
And with that clear head, he thought of Eleanor on the roof of the tower two days ago, of her low voice and her springtime eyes. The longing stamped on her face as she stared into the mist and the subtle way her hands curled into her skirts, as if she had to hold onto herself to keep herself in place.
A dock with many ships.
A hallway with many doors.
It wasn’t too late. Yes, the guests were here; yes, there was to be a wedding in two days’ time, but it wasn’t too late to undo what he’d so carelessly and negligently done. He’d been appalled to discover his nephew was selfish—but really, how much more selfish had Jarrell himself been? For years, he’d been consumed with leaving by any means possible, and he hadn’t considered that those means could be the engine of unhappiness for someone else.
But never mind. He would fix it. What good was being a duke if he couldn’t fix things?
Unfortunately, since he was technically the host, he found himself much in demand as he began looking anew for Eleanor. Which meant he had to force his way through tedious pleasantries, barely veiled inquiries into his absence from society, and several pointed remarks about Gilbert’s infamous Grand Tour, all while trying to decide the best way to approach Eleanor and ask if she wanted to stop this farce and leave Far Hope with her future intact.
He endured a dance with Eleanor’s mother—who was feeling perfectly hale and hearty tonight, although she’d been abed all day with nerves—and then with the Countess of Kellow, Arabella Foscourt, whom he’d once known intimately as a younger man.
“Can we expect Far Hope to host more fêtes such as this?” the matron asked him as they touched hands and turned. Though she neared her sixth decade, she was still lovely, with a full mouth and sparkling eyes. Her alabaster skin was mostly unlined, save for a few fine creases around her eyes, a testament to how often she smiled. “More gatherings?”
“As I’ve only the one nephew and my brother is deceased, I doubt there will be another betrothal ball soon,” Jarrell responded. It was a question he was used to dodging, especially from Arabella, who wrote him once or twice a year on the subject.
She shot him a look as they circled each other. “You know very well what I mean. And I’m not getting any younger, Ajax. I’d like to be here again before I die.”
“Far Hope is not the only meeting place for people like us.”
“No, but it is the oldest. And the safest because of its location.” She peered up at him as they came together and touched hands again. “What happened to you, Ajax?”
A young wife had happened to him. Helena had happened. A duke’s daughter, so tall and strapping that she seemed like a force of nature on her own. She rode, hunted, drank, swore, and laughed at every joke she’d ever heard—she’d been the most vital, alive person he’d ever met.
And then she’d died. Here in this very place.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he evaded with some relief, hearing the end of the music. “I should make sure Gilbert hasn’t caused a scene yet.”
It was mostly a lie—he actually wanted to stop thinking about Helena and he also needed to find Eleanor—but it was a plausible enough excuse.
His nephew would be a perpetual hazard to him all night, and potentially for much longer.
And he’d planned on making Gilbert Eleanor’s hazard instead.
Guilt flickered through his blood. What had he been thinking?
He needed to see her. Talk to her, ask her what she wanted, he needed to make sure—
But where was she?
She wasn’t in the center of the ballroom dancing, and she wasn’t along the edges. Jarrell circulated twice, feeling increasingly stormy as he couldn’t locate her, a storminess that had no real target except himself. For placing all of them into this mess to begin with. For desiring her.
But his anger at himself didn’t slow his steps. He finally asked Eleanor’s mother if she’d seen her, but Lady Vane was too tipsy at that point to be much help. No one in the ballroom was any help. Even though she was ostensibly the reason for the ball itself, no one had noted her departure, nor had anyone noticed her absence.
Jarrell didn’t bother asking Gilbert.
He left the ballroom in search of her rooms, turmoil muddying his thoughts. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well. But to leave without telling anyone? To slip away from the ballroom as if she didn’t want her absence to be noticed at all?
It all became clear once he got to her rooms and the anxious maid immediately—and tearfully—confessed everything without him having to ask a single question.