Chapter 4: The Duke’s Possession
1260 Words
The First Morning as His Wife
Eleanor woke to the scent of sandalwood and smoke lingering in the air, the warmth of the fire casting soft shadows against the dark silken sheets.
For a moment, she didn’t move.
The events of the previous night settled over her slowly—the auction, Alexander’s arrival, the wedding in the cathedral, and the moment he had left her in his bedroom.
She was now the Duchess of Collinwood.
The thought should have frightened her. It should have left her uneasy.
But it didn’t.
Instead, as she lay beneath the heavy blankets, she felt something unexpectedly steady settle in her chest.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Certainty.
The Duke had made his intentions clear from the moment he had entered that auction house—she belonged to him.
And, strangely, she had no desire to fight it.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
Before she could respond, the door opened.
And there he was.
Alexander stood in the doorway, still dressed in the dark attire from last night, though his coat was now absent, his sleeves rolled up slightly. His sharp gaze landed on her immediately, scanning her as if assessing whether she had slept well, whether she had eaten, whether she was unharmed.
His expression gave nothing away.
But there was something about the way he looked at her—as if he had already committed every detail of her to memory.
"Good," he murmured, stepping inside. "You're awake."
She swallowed. "I—yes."
He said nothing as he moved toward the table near the fireplace. A tray had been set there, filled with freshly baked bread, fruit, eggs, and tea.
Eleanor hesitated as she sat up, the heavy blankets slipping from her shoulders.
"I had the kitchen prepare breakfast," Alexander said as he picked up a plate. "You will eat all of it."
She blinked.
Had he just given her an order about food?
He must have noticed her hesitation, because his sharp gaze flicked toward her.
"Did they not feed you properly before?"
Eleanor froze.
The way he said it—calm, but dangerously quiet—made something in her chest tighten.
She could lie. She could tell him that her stepmother had provided for her, that she had never gone hungry.
But something about the way he looked at her made her feel as though he already knew the truth.
Slowly, she shook her head.
Alexander’s fingers tightened around the porcelain plate.
Then, without a word, he walked over to her.
Before she could react, he sat on the edge of the bed and lifted a piece of bread toward her.
Eleanor stared at him.
"Eat," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
She hesitated for only a second before accepting the bite.
The warmth of the bread melted on her tongue, and she hadn’t realized how hungry she was until now.
Alexander watched her carefully as she chewed, his expression unreadable.
But when she reached for the plate to take the food herself, he didn’t let go.
"I will feed you," he said.
Eleanor’s breath caught.
There was no mockery in his voice, no amusement.
Only pure, unwavering determination.
Slowly, she took another bite.
And Alexander—for the first time since she had met him—looked satisfied.
After breakfast, Alexander led her through the halls of his estate.
Eleanor had never seen a home so grand yet so cold. The ceilings stretched high, the walls adorned with intricate tapestries, the chandeliers casting golden light along the polished floors.
Yet, despite its beauty, there was an emptiness to it.
A loneliness that clung to the air.
"This estate is yours now," Alexander said as they walked.
Eleanor glanced at him. "Yours, you mean."
His gaze flicked toward her, sharp and assessing. "No. I mean yours."
Her breath stilled.
He spoke as if it were an absolute truth.
As if nothing could change it.
Before she could respond, they reached the grand staircase.
At the bottom, a man stood waiting.
An older gentleman, his posture straight despite the years etched into his features. His eyes, though aged, held a quiet intelligence and warmth that Eleanor had not expected.
He inclined his head. "My Lord Duke."
Alexander nodded once. "Edward."
Eleanor blinked.
He had used his first name.
A Duke addressing a butler without title was unheard of.
"Your Grace," Edward said, turning to Eleanor, his voice gentle. "Welcome to Collinwood Manor. It is an honor to serve you."
For a moment, she did not know what to say.
Alexander must have sensed her hesitation, because his fingers brushed against her wrist in the lightest touch—a silent reassurance.
She gripped his sleeve slightly, grounding herself.
"Thank you," she finally said.
Edward smiled faintly, his gaze filled with understanding.
And for the first time since stepping into this house, she felt a little less alone.
Over the next few days, Eleanor began to notice things.
Small things.
Things that no one else would have noticed.
Whenever they dined together, Alexander never allowed the servants to assume what she wanted.
He would ask which tea she preferred, and the very next day, it would be the only one served to her.
When she mentioned in passing that she liked honey with her bread, there was always a small jar waiting at the table.
If she took only half a serving, he would add more to her plate himself.
"You need to eat more," he would murmur, his voice low but insistent.
She would have argued, but the way he looked at her—as if he were committing every bite to memory—left no room for refusal.
It was not forceful.
It was not demanding.
It was care.
And it was unlike anything she had ever known.
The first night, he had left her alone.
The second night, he had done the same.
But on the third night, everything changed.
Eleanor had been unable to sleep, the unfamiliarity of her new surroundings pressing against her.
She had shifted restlessly beneath the silk sheets, her body unable to relax.
And then—the door opened.
She turned her head just in time to see Alexander enter.
He said nothing.
He simply removed his coat, placed his gloves on the side table, and walked toward the bed.
Her breath caught.
"You should rest," he murmured as he sat on the edge of the mattress.
She swallowed. "I—"
But before she could finish, he leaned back, reaching for her hand.
The touch was gentle, almost cautious.
He guided her against his chest, wrapping an arm around her waist.
Not as a command.
Not as a demand.
But as a silent declaration.
This is where you belong.
She stiffened slightly at first.
Not from fear.
But from the sheer unfamiliarity of it.
The way his warmth seeped into her, his steady breath against her hair.
She exhaled slowly, her body finally relaxing.
Alexander said nothing.
He only held her.
And before she realized it, she had fallen asleep.
As she breathed softly against him, Alexander lay awake, staring at the flickering candlelight.
He had not expected her to fit against him so perfectly.
Had not expected the way her warmth settled against his chest, easing something sharp inside him.
She did not fight him.
She did not resist.
She simply let him hold her.
And for a man who had never known softness—
That was more dangerous than anything.
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End of Chapter 4
- Writer
