(The Players for this evening's narrative at the Lord Governor's residence....)
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| (Lord Governor Henry Archibald Whitehall) |
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| (Lady Eleanor Whitehall) |
The Governor’s Mansion, Port Dominion — Earlier That Evening
The Governor’s carriage rattled up the cobbled drive, its lanterns swaying, throwing long gold streaks across the palms. The harbor behind still glimmered with the dying fires of sunset; torches on the wharf burned like tiny, defiant stars.
Lord Henry Whitehall stepped down, his face a mixture of exhaustion and vexation. He tugged off his gloves as he entered the cool marble hall, his boots clicking sharply against the floor. The scent of candlewax and sea-salted air mingled faintly in the corridor as he strode toward the sitting room — the room he always found her in. The servants and staff within the Governor's House, were familiar with this look and air about him, and gave him a wide berth. He turned into the doorway and entered the sitting room.
And there she was.
Lady Eleanor Whitehall, in the amber glow of the fire.
Her dark hair reflected the firelight as did her even darker eyes. She wore a silk gown of pale ivory, the bodice trimmed with delicate lace, the folds pooling softly around her on the chaise as though she had been poured there by the light itself. A glass of wine shimmered red in her hand, and a small book lay upon the cushion next to her on the couch.
She looked up at him through the screen of her lashes — calm, expectant, the faintest curl of a smile at the edge of her lips.
The fire caught the reflection in her eyes and made them seem to flicker, golden and unreadable.
Henry stopped short, staring at her for a moment too long. Then he exhaled sharply and tossed his gloves onto the table.
“First the Spanish Contessa,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter, “and now… this — this French fop!”
He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a measure of claret, the movement rough, impatient.
“Damn the whole affair,” he went on. “If it isn’t the Spaniards and their silks and secrets, it’s the French with their perfume and powdered faces. The man looked like a canary in mourning, Eleanor — and the worst of it, I’m expected to treat him as if he were a royal envoy!”
Eleanor tilted her head, regarding him over the rim of her glass.
“A canary in mourning,” she echoed softly, amusement glinting in her voice. “My dear Henry, you have the soul of a poet — even when angry.”
He shot her a look, but her tone disarmed him. She set her glass aside and rose, her movements smooth, unhurried. The silk of her gown whispered as she crossed the rug, the faint scent of rosewater trailing after her.
“Tell me,” she said, coming close enough that he could feel the warmth of her. “What did he do to offend you so dreadfully? Surely even the French can’t be that intolerable.”
Henry gave a short, mirthless laugh. “He preened. He posed. He insulted the humidity, the colony, our manners — and still managed to look as though he were about to faint from the sight of honest work. Paris must be laughing itself to sleep sending him here.” He shook his head slightly. "I am honestly surprised that he didn't have his own violin quartet following him as he walked, playing a musical air dedicated to him announcing his presence to all the living creatures on this entire island."
Eleanor smiled — slow, knowing. “Then perhaps he was sent for that very reason,” she murmured. “To rattle your nerves.”
Her hand brushed his arm as she passed him — a ghost of contact, deliberate.
He stiffened slightly, throat tightening as she poured more wine into his glass, her sleeve gliding over his wrist.
“You mustn’t let him see you angry,” she said. “Men like that thrive on reaction. Let him play the fool. You, my love, have the better stage.”
Henry stared at her — the calm of her face, the glint of her eyes.
For a moment, his anger softened, replaced by that familiar unease she always stirred in him — the kind that sat somewhere between desire and surrender.
“You make it sound so simple,” he said quietly.
Eleanor turned toward him, her hair catching the firelight, molten gold against the darkness. “It is,” she whispered. “But then, men rarely see what’s simple when their pride is pricked.”
The corner of her mouth lifted — that half-smile that always disarmed him, the one that felt like mockery and invitation at once.
He tried to speak but found his words lost. His hand tightened on the glass instead.
He hated that she could do this — turn the storm inside him to silence, leave him caught between fury and fascination.
Eleanor stepped closer still, until her voice was almost a breath against his ear.
“Tell me about her,” she murmured. “The Contessa.”
He hesitated. “She is… unsettling,” he admitted at last. “Beautiful, yes — but there’s something behind her eyes. Cold. Calculating. The soldiers whisper of witchcraft already.”
Eleanor’s smile deepened, soft and dangerous. “Ah,” she said. “So another woman of power unsettles the mighty Lord Whitehall.”
Henry looked at her sharply, but her tone was playful — or seemed so.
She moved back to her chair, the fire painting her silhouette in gold.
“You forget yourself, Eleanor,” he said, but without conviction.
“Do I?” she asked, her gaze holding his. “Or do you forget how easily you are swayed?”
The air between them hummed — not with argument, but with that electric tension that had always lived in their marriage.
He wanted to speak — to scold, to claim, to confess how her mere nearness made him forget reason — but the words would not come.
Outside, the waves broke faintly against the shore.
Inside, the fire crackled, low and intimate.
Eleanor sipped her wine again, eyes never leaving his. “You worry about the Frenchman,” she said at last, “but I think he is the least of your troubles. The Contessa… she will stir things. She always does. Perhaps it’s time you learned how to stir back.”
Henry’s pulse quickened. “And you would teach me?”
Her smile curved — dangerous, exquisite.
“I already have,” she said. “You’ve simply never noticed.”
The clock struck midnight. The fire hissed.
And though neither spoke again, the silence between them burned hotter than the coals.
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