The steady clatter of hooves on gravel broke the serene morning stillness at Cavendish Manor. Eleanor stood near the window of the drawing room, her gaze fixed on the driveway as a familiar carriage approached. A mixture of anticipation and unease swirled in her chest. It had been months since she last saw her brother James, and while she cherished his protective nature, she braced herself for the inevitable undercurrent of overbearing concern that always accompanied his visits.
The carriage halted, and the coachman opened the door. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged. James Fairchild, with his neatly tailored coat and an air of quiet authority, paused to survey the manor grounds before stepping forward with purposeful strides.
Eleanor moved to the entrance just as the doors opened. The sight of him brought a rush of warmth she hadn’t expected. “James,” she greeted, her voice steady but tinged with emotion.