Still slightly pale, and uncharacteristically fragile in her demeanour, the dowager duchess had, as she had said she would, rallied from her sickbed in order to take her place as hostess of the Royston Ball. Justin’s mood had not improved since he and Eleanor had parted so frostily upon returning to the stables behind Royston House. For the most part because Justin knew he had handled the situation badly, that issuing orders to a woman as stubborn as Eleanor was proving to be was sure to result in her doing the exact opposite of what was being asked of her—an accusation, which if repeated to Eleanor, would no doubt earn him the comment of ‘the pot calling the kettle black’! Not that Justin thought for a moment that she would ever encourage Litchfield’s advances, but he had no doubt she would find some other way in which to bedevil him for what she had considered his high-handedness this afternoon. He had known, the moment Eleanor walked down the grand staircase at Royston House earlier, and he had seen the light of rebellion in those emerald-green eyes and the defiant tilt to her chin, that she intended for that punishment to begin this very evening...
