Eleanor's sisters all murmured their assent, making her heart swell with love. She was so lucky to have these people in her life, people who could be annoying (Olivia), pedantic (Ida), and quiet (Pearl), but who ultimately loved her and wanted her to be happy, no matter how it might affect them.

Do you like flowers, Lady Eleanor?"
It was him speaking. Lord Blunt. Asking her opinion on something, of all things.
It was unexpected.
And everyone was waiting for her answer. Or so it seemed.
"I do, thank you." Why did his simple question make her want to shout, or scream, or say something in Italian?
A language that she'd learned that seemed to hold all the emotion she wasn't allowed to have. So she loved it all the more.
"They are... bellissimi fiori," she said, feeling daring as she spoke.
"Speak so that everyone can understand, Eleanor," her mother said reprovingly.
"Of course, Mother," Eleanor replied, lowering her eyes so nobody would see the spark of defiance she knew was there.

She practically stumbled walking out the door- she, who had mastered the task of walking across a bushel of grapes in dancing slippers with a full water glass on her head, stumbled.

You, of all people, should know that what you wear is ninety percent of what people perceive about you." He kissed her head. "Such as when you put on that ferociously pink dress to wear to our ball, knowing that it looked lovely on you, but also knowing that it was what people were expecting you to wear. Whereas when you wore that black habit to go riding..."
He paused. "What?" she asked.
"Well, you did not look at all as I'd been led to believe."
"And that was... all right?"
He made a tsking noise. "I cannot believe you still have to ask that. It was glorious to see, you descending the stairs like a fearsome dark goddess, rather than the princess I'd married. I knew then, even though I couldn't actually say it to myself properly, that there was more to you than what you present.

All of a sudden, she felt frozen. More chilled than before, as though she had been thrust into an ice house and left on her own. She concentrated on taking a deep breath, but it felt as though she could only draw quick, hurried breaths.
"Isabella, today I will take my tea differently than usual," Nicholas spoke in an entirely casual tone, but she knew he had somehow realized what was going through her mind and was taking pity on her.
"Yes?" she asked, poised to pour out the tea.
His mouth quirked up in a smile, so quick she would have missed it if she hadn't been staring at his mouth. A habit she did not wish to break. "Yes, I would like milk and just one teaspoon of sugar."
He leaned toward her and kissed her, gently, on the cheek. "You are sweet enough for me," he said, in a tone that was audible to everyone, yet still managed to sound intimate.

Imagine: you could say nothing, do nothing, eat nothing, touch nothing, love nothing without the other knowing.