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do courtesy with the others, but the duchess held up a staying hand. In the days since Eleanor had been allowed out of bed, the duchess had gone out of her way to save her any extra effort. “I am well, indeed. Perhaps I might rejoin you in the gallery tonight after supper?”
    “A few more days, I think. What is that you are making?”
    “A cote-hardie.” Eleanor held up the garment to show her. “I cut the cloth yesterday and began stitching after prayers this morning.”
    “And you have the shoulders seamed already? I hope you are taking proper care with your stitches.”
    “Of course, my lady. As you taught me.”
    The duchess came over and inspected the stitching, then fingered the thick brown wool. “Is this not the cloth Westmorland sent you to make a traveling cloak?”
    Eleanor flushed at the mention of her father. “It is not to my taste. I felt it better suited to a man.”
    “To Sir Gunnar, perhaps?”
    Suddenly self-conscious before the duchess’s knowing smile, Eleanor smoothed the cloth across her knee and started sorting out the needle and thread, which had tangled as she’d shown the garment. “I heard he did not stay long enough to have new clothes to replace his burnt ones, and I thought to have something ready for him when he comes to tourney.”
    “ If he comes—”
    “You told me he promised, my lady.”
    Coloring a little, the duchess pressed her fingertips together before her chin. “ Promise may have been too strong a word. You were ill, and I spoke to give you cause to heal.”
    Disappointment made Eleanor frown. She sought reassurance. “But he did say I would see him again when I was well?”
    “Yes,” admitted the duchess.
    “Then he surely will come,” said Eleanor. “He did not strike me as the sort who would lie.”
    “No. I suppose not,” said the duchess, a bit uncomfortably for Eleanor’s taste. “But there is no need for you to sew for him. I gave him a ring to buy himself new clothes, and if, eh, when he does come back, I will see that he receives more. After all, I owe him very nearly as much as you.”
    “But I wish to sew for him, my lady. By way of thanks.”
    “Of course,” said Her Grace gently. “But you must not carry your thanks too far. Sir Gunnar is a simple knight, while you—”
    “While you are so much more,” said a masculine voice from the doorway.
    This time Eleanor sprang up without hesitation, her sewing tumbling to the floor as she dropped into a deep courtesy along with the other women. “Your Grace.”
    The duke stepped into the room and his gaze raked over the others. “I would speak with Lady Eleanor alone.”
    The duchess clapped her hands, and the other women and maids, already on their feet, quickly departed, leaving their work where it lay. Her Grace started to follow them out, but her husband motioned for her to stay, then paced across the room and stood, fists on hips, looking down at Eleanor, who slowly straightened.
    “You must look higher than Sir Gunnar, Lady Eleanor. And fortunately, I bring word of someone you may look to.”
    Higher than the man who had saved me? Doubtful that there could be such a man, Eleanor asked, “Who? I mean, if you please, Your Grace.”
    Smiling as though he had a pleasant secret to reveal, the duke took a folded parchment out of his sleeve. Eleanor’s mouth went dry as she recognized her father’s wax seal across the opening. Oblivious of Eleanor’s pounding heart, the duke unfolded the message and looked it over, nodding silently to himself. “A husband. Your father and I have come to an agreement on your marriage.”
    “Marriage?” Eleanor blinked, stunned even though she’d been expecting it for some time. “To whom?”
    “Richard le Despenser.”
    “Richard. Your nephew?” The image of a boy two years younger than she, skinny as a broom straw and pale as dough, sprang up in Eleanor’s skull. “But I don’t want to marry Richard.”
    The duke’s smile vanished. “It is a