Lady Eleanor Mary Cantwell, daughter of the Marquess of Salford, is a proper young lady. With her golden complexion, raven-black hair, and manners befitting a princess, Lady Eleanor has always been deemed a belle. There is just one problem.
Lady Ele...
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The walls are covered in flowers. The sheets are white. The ceiling is white.
The sight of red death flashed through her mind.
The walls are covered in flowers. The sheets are white. The ceiling is white.
She felt the cold blade against her throat and the pain of parting flesh. Clenching her teeth, she closed her eyes to get rid of the feeling.
The walls are covered in flowers. The sheets are white. The ceiling is white.
'We were never married.'
The walls are covered in flowers. The sheets are white. The ceiling is white.
'She has miscarried.'
At the memory, a strangled cry tore from Eleanor's throat and she hurled the pillow she had been holding across the room. And when it failed to make an impact, she grabbed the crystal glass on her bedside table and threw it with the might of a thousand warriors. The glass hit the wall opposite her and shattered into a million pieces. Chest heaving, her anger, anguish and frustration not the least bit gone, she fell back onto the bed she had been sitting on.
It had been four days since everything had been brought to light. Four days since her life had fallen apart as every harsh lie came to the forefront. She was angry - so, so angry. At her parents for not telling her upon her arrival. At Gabby, for not mentioning anything in her letter. At everyone else who probably knew and kept it from her. The maids had probably known as well - everyone but her.
And above all, she was angry at the duke.
He was no longer her 'husband'. That had certainly been a misguiding. But he wasn't Nathan either. He was simply the Duke of Wolverhampton - a bachelor. There certainly did not exist a Duchess of Wolverhampton.
And the harsh reality of it all was that there never would be an heir as well. At least, not from her womb. Her baby had died. A miscarriage was what the lady doctor, Rajalakshmi, had told her had happened. She did not know why it had occurred - maybe it was the stress and the trauma of the entire situation. But one could never know for sure. Sometimes, it happened for no reason at all, she said.
Eleanor thought it cruel. If there had been some reason - any reason - her mind would have been more at ease. She would not be holed up in her room, repeating its colours to prevent herself from crying out in rage at the emptiness.
How odd it was that only a few days back, her life had been complete and happy, with a loving husband and a baby on the way? Now, she was left with neither. She would never see her baby boy, black hair like hers and blue eyes like his father's, permanently joyous and gleeful like in her dream. Foolish of her to have even dreamt up a daughter when she couldn't even hold onto her son who would now never be. A sob escaped her at the thought.
