The morning light filtered through the frosted windows of Warwick Manor, casting pale ribbons across the Persian rug. Elenora sat stiffly in a high-backed chair, her hands resting, gloved and still, atop her lap.
Across from her, the Duke of Warwick, her father, studied a letter with the intensity of a man dissecting a battlefield map.
"You were cold to Lord Everlyn," he said, eyes not leaving the page.
Elenora did not look away from the fire. "I was polite."
"Politeness is not a substitute for cooperation."
"Then perhaps we ought to redefine our expectations."
That drew his gaze. Grey and sharp. Measured.
"Your mother was the same in her youth. Proud. Distant. It took her years to understand that silence alone cannot build alliances."
"She learned to smile, then," Elenora said. "Even when she hated the company."
"Exactly."
The word fell like a gavel. Final.
The conversation drifted into the usual murmurs of estate business and political obligations. Elenora let his voice blur into background noise, her thoughts already slipping beyond the stone walls of Warwick.
There were days—moments—when she thought perhaps she could survive this life, could endure the suitors and expectations, if only she were allowed to feel useful. Real.
But usefulness, to the nobility, meant marriage. Titles. Dowries.
She stood as he spoke of Lord Everlyn again, murmuring some suggestion of a carriage ride, a private dinner.
"I've scheduled an appearance at the East End orphanage," she interrupted smoothly. "As a gesture from House Warwick. Shall I bring a letter in your name as well?"
That silenced him.
Good.
---
By mid-afternoon, the city stretched beyond the hills of the estate. The air was colder here, rougher around the edges. The Warwick crest on the side of her carriage drew wary glances and swift bows as she stepped down, cloak wrapped around her shoulders, boots tapping quietly along the wet stone.
The orphanage was small, weathered, but clean. Laughter filtered from inside—thin and precious, like sunlight in winter.
She stepped through the doors and was immediately surrounded by a flurry of movement—children darting through the halls, voices high with excitement. The headmistress approached, flustered but smiling.
"Lady Elenora. We're so honored—please, this way."
As she followed the woman down the corridor, her gaze landed on a figure leaning against the far archway.
Darius Cain.
He stood with one shoulder braced against the stone, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, and a book in the other. His coat was off, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned just enough to look deliberately improper. A boy sat beside him, peering over the edge of the book as Darius read aloud with a voice full of drama and inflection.
Her steps slowed involuntarily.
He glanced up—caught her.
He did not smirk. Not this time.
Instead, he closed the book slowly and offered a slight bow of his head, as though they were standing again in the grandeur of the ballroom.
"Lady Elenora."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Mr. Cain. Following me?"
"Hardly," he replied, pushing off the wall. "I've been here since morning. You, on the other hand, are a surprise."
"Does the Warwick family's public charity shock you that deeply?"
"Not at all," he said, walking toward her now. "Only that you'd lower yourself to walk among the commoners. I half-expected you to send a letter instead. With scented paper and a donation."
"And yet here I am."
"And yet here you are."
Their eyes met. His held something different this time—not challenge, but curiosity. Or perhaps... approval.
She shifted her weight. "Do you volunteer here?"
"Not formally," he said. "I fix things. Read stories. Eat their terrible sandwiches."
"You're not paid for it?"
He shrugged. "Some things are worth doing even when there's no coin attached."
That answer sat heavily in the air between them. Not performative. Not rehearsed. He meant it.
The headmistress returned and began guiding Elenora through the small rooms, proudly pointing out renovations and improvements. Children waved. A few tugged at her cloak. She managed soft, brief smiles—but her mind kept drifting back.
Back to Darius Cain, seated among children like a misplaced myth.
---
Later, as she prepared to leave, she found him again—this time in the small garden behind the orphanage, seated on the low wall with the same book in hand. A girl leaned against his side, her eyes half-lidded with sleep as he read to her in a voice now quiet and slow.
Elenora didn't announce herself. She simply watched.
It was a strange thing—to see a man so unguarded.
He noticed her eventually and closed the book, resting it in his lap.
"She's asleep," he said softly. "Third time I've read that chapter. She still insists it's her favorite."
"Why do you come here?" she asked. "Really."
He thought for a moment. "Because it reminds me that people can be good."
"And you need the reminder?"
"I need to believe it," he said. "Especially when I'm with your kind."
She almost laughed. Almost.
"That's awfully honest of you."
"I'm awfully honest in general."
"That's dangerous."
He smiled, but it was faint. "So is silence."
She held his gaze, then turned toward the carriage.
"Goodbye, Mr. Cain."
He didn't bow this time. Just watched her walk away.
---
That night, back in her chambers, she undid the pins from her hair slowly, one by one, staring into the mirror.
She did not think of Lord Everlyn, nor of her father's plans, nor of the endless calendar of dinners and expectations.
She thought of a man with no title.
And the way he made her feel seen.