"Six weeks."
"Six weeks."
"And no assumptions."
"Agreed."
"And no pretending this is a love story."
"Agreed."
She stood. "Then we have a bargain."
Julian held out his hand. She took it. His fingers closed around hers. Neither released immediately. Eliza noticed. So did he. She withdrew her hand first.
"Six weeks, Your Grace."
"Julian."
She looked at him.
"If you are going to spend six weeks arguing with me, you may as well use my name."
She smiled. "Very well. Then you may call me Eliza, and you may call me Julian."
He nodded. "Good."
She walked toward the door.
"Eliza."
She turned. "The bird."
"What about it?"
"Keep the necklace somewhere safe."
She smiled. "I thought you disliked it."
"I do."
"Then why are you worried?"
Julian looked toward the garden. "Because it has excellent timing."
The first week at Bellamy House was nothing like Eliza expected. She expected grandeur; there was plenty of that. She expected servants; there were too many. She expected Julian to behave like a man accustomed to obedience. He did—until she disagreed with him. Then something strange happened: he listened. Not always happily, not always immediately, but he listened.
On her second morning, she found him arguing with the estate steward.
"The eastern cottages need repairs," she said.
Julian looked at her. "I know."
"Then why are they still waiting?"
The steward looked between them.
Julian sighed. "Because the roofers are occupied with the west barn."
Eliza glanced at the steward. "Can the work be split?"
"Yes."
Julian considered it. "Do that."
The steward nodded. After he left, Julian looked at her. "You could have told me privately."
"You could have fixed it privately."
"I had not finished the accounts."
"The roof does not care."
He smiled. "That is an irritatingly good point."
She walked away. He followed.
"You are pleased."