Runaway Duchess

In May, the roses were in full bloom at Devonshire Manor.

Eleanor Ashton stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in her bedroom in the east wing and watched the Juliet roses in the garden unfurl their petals in the morning light. Today marked her 367th day as a member of the Devonshire family and her 37th morning waking up alone.

"Madam, your breakfast is ready," the maid Anna said softly as she placed a silver tray on the small, round table by the window.

"Where is the duke?" Eleanor asked, finding the question ridiculous even to herself.

Anna’s eyes flickered briefly, and she lowered her head. "His Grace has already left for London. He said there was an important session of Parliament.”

"I see."

In fact, Parliament was in recess today. Last night, while organizing her gardening notes in the study, Eleanor had accidentally caught a glimpse of William’s schedule. She simply chose not to call him out on it.

Breakfast was a standard English breakfast of bacon, fried eggs, roasted tomatoes, and blood pudding. Eleanor chewed mechanically, her gaze fixed on the pigeon-egg-sized sapphire wedding ring from the Cavendish family heirloom collection on her dressing table. William had never slipped it onto her finger himself. It had been delivered by a butler the night before the wedding and presented in a velvet box with a handwritten note attached. “Wear it tomorrow.”

Eleanor set down her fork, wiped the corner of her mouth with her linen napkin, and stood up to head toward the walk-in closet. Today, she was to attend a meeting of the local charity committee. As the Duchess of Devonshire, she was obliged to make appearances at such events, even though she knew she was nothing more than a living ornament to the Cavendish family.

As she changed, she studied her reflection in the mirror. She looked twenty-three years old. Her features weren’t stunning, but there was a quiet dignity about her. Her French grandmother had given her light brown hair and honey-colored eyes. At her coming-of-age ceremony, her mother called her "the gentlest rose of the Ashton family."

But William Cavendish clearly didn’t see it that way.

During their first month of marriage, she mustered the courage to seek him out in his study.

"William, I thought we might have dinner together." She stood in the doorway of his study wearing a newly purchased velvet gown and with her hair styled in the manner of a married woman—a look the stylist had spent two hours perfecting.

William looked up from his papers, his gray-blue eyes sweeping her coldly as if she were a piece of ill-fitting furniture.

“I’m busy,” he said.

"But—"

"Eleanor," he interrupted, his tone laced with condescending impatience. "We both know what this marriage is. I don’t need you to play the role of a dutiful wife and mother. You just need to do what a duchess is supposed to do: attend events, maintain appearances, and stay out of my way.”

He paused, a cold smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "As for the rest, don't read too much into it."

The study door closed in front of her.

It never opened again.

The Charity Committee meeting was held in a town twenty miles from the estate. Eleanor’s taciturn chauffeur, Hawkins, spoke only twice during the ride: "Madam, we've arrived," and "I'll be waiting for you in the parking lot."

The meeting itself was uneventful. Several aristocratic ladies discussed the menu and seating arrangements for the next charity dinner, occasionally exchanging social gossip. Eleanor maintained a polite smile, nodded at appropriate moments, and offered a few harmless suggestions when needed.

During the tea break, a shrill voice rang out behind her.

"My dear Duchess, I hear your rose garden is blooming particularly well this year. What a pity—we won’t get to see them.”

The speaker was the Countess of Featherstone, a sharp-tongued widow. She walked over, fanning herself, accompanied by two other ladies equally eager for gossip.

"The estate's gardens are always open to the public," Eleanor replied politely. "If you're interested, I can arrange a tour."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," the Countess of Featherstone said with a knowing smile. "I was merely curious if His Grace the Duke would be interested in viewing the flowers. I hear he spends most of his time in London—what a pity.”

As she finished speaking, the two ladies beside her exchanged a knowing glance.

Eleanor gripped her teacup tightly.

The implication was clear: the entire high society was watching her marriage, waiting to see how the daughter of a fallen earl would fare under the nouveau riche's scorn.

"William is indeed busy with his work," she said calmly, "but our marriage is a happy one."

"Of course." Mrs. Featherstone patted her hand; her smile seemed to say, "We all know the truth."

On the drive back to the estate, Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on the window. The English countryside in May was heartbreakingly beautiful, with vast green fields dotted with wildflowers and occasional glimpses of ancient stone churches. She recalled her childhood, when she first visited the estate with her father.

She was eight that year, and William was eleven.

A summer garden party was being held at the estate. After getting lost, Eleanor stumbled upon a rose garden deep within the grounds. There, she found white roses unlike any she had ever seen before, with layered petals that seemed to glow in the sunlight.

"Who are you?" a boy's voice asked from behind her.

She turned around and saw a blond boy in a white shirt holding a book and frowning at her.

"I'm Eleanor Ashton," she replied timidly. "I'm sorry. I'm lost."

The boy took a few steps closer and studied her for a moment. Then, his brow smoothed out.

“Are you from the Ashton family?” he asked. "Your father was a college classmate of my father."

“You’re…”

“William Cavendish,” he said, straightening his back and displaying a hint of the future duke’s haughtiness.

That afternoon, however, William showed Eleanor around the entire garden, explaining the name and origin of every variety of rose. His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and his gestures were forceful. Little Eleanor felt that this boy was smarter than anyone she had ever met.

As they parted ways, William plucked a white rose and handed it to her.

"This rose is called 'Lady Moonlight,' my mother's favorite flower," he said. "It's for you."

That was the only warm memory they shared.

Eleven years later, with the Ashton family on the brink of bankruptcy, the Cavendish family suddenly proposed a marriage alliance. Eleanor remembered the complex expression on her father’s face the day she received the news—a mix of joy and guilt.

"The Cavendish family needs a daughter-in-law of noble blood, and we need their support," her father said, clasping her hand and avoiding her gaze. “Eleanor, William is a good boy. You knew each other when you were children...”

"I know, Father," she said softly.

What she didn’t say was that she had once harbored hopes for this marriage.

She had hoped the boy who used to give her white roses would grow up to be a gentle husband. She had hoped they could rekindle their childhood friendship or develop deeper feelings for each other.

However, the reality was totally the opposite.

As the car pulled up to the estate gates, Hawkins’s voice brought her back to the present: “Madam, we’ve arrived.”

Eleanor took a deep breath and opened the car door. She looked up at the magnificent Baroque building, with every window radiating the arrogance and coldness of an ancient family.

This was her home, but not her true home.

As she entered the hall, the butler, Benson, came forward and handed her a gold-embossed invitation.

"Madam, this arrived this afternoon. It's for the annual Summer Garden Ball at Buckingham Palace on June 20th.”

Eleanor took the invitation and opened it to see the neat block letters beneath the royal coat of arms. This was a social event of the highest caliber, attended personally by the Queen, and every guest would prepare meticulously.

“Do I need to reply?”

"His Grace the Duke has already confirmed his attendance," Benson said, pausing. "He said you would be attending as well."

"He decided for me?"

Benson lowered his head and did not answer.

Eleanor clenched the invitation in her hand. This was typical of William—arranging everything for his wife without ever asking her opinion. In his world, her existence served only to fill the role of “Duchess of Devinhill.”

Her own thoughts were never a consideration for him.

She walked up the stairs, through the long corridor, and past William’s room—that solid, black oak door was always shut tight. She had once overheard the estate’s elderly servants discussing a heart-wrenching romance William had experienced in his youth. The girl had been his classmate at Oxford, but their relationship had ended due to family opposition.

Perhaps that was why he loathed this marriage.

Maybe to him, Eleanor would always be the girl who wandered into his garden, never the love of his life.

As night fell, scattered lights began to glow across the estate. Eleanor sat alone by the window in her bedroom, watching the rose garden fade into a blurry silhouette against the night sky.

She twirled the sapphire ring on her finger, suddenly feeling weighed down by it.

Outside the window, a night bird let out a mournful cry.

She recalled the words her mother had spoken to her on her deathbed: "Eleanor, don't base your self-worth on marriage. You must learn to love yourself.”

At the time, she hadn’t understood their meaning.

Now she did.

But this realization had come too late—and it was too painful.