Chapter 1 #2
"It is dull. It prevents errors, yes, because it prevents everything."
He did not answer that at once. Eleanor became aware of the steadiness of him, and the quiet certainty in his touch, the way he anticipated each turn before it came leaving no space for hesitation.
She had never thought of him in terms of presence, only in terms of opposition.
"You are very certain of everything," she said, softer than before.
"It is preferable to the unknown."
"And yet here you are," she replied. "Relying on me."
"For a single dance."
"Which I am fulfilling well, I believe."
"You are."
The movement of the dance shifted again, drawing them into a slower turn. For a brief moment, the conversation faltered, not entirely, but enough that the silence between them became noticeable.
He did not look at her. His gaze remained fixed somewhere just beyond her shoulder, as though deliberately avoiding her.
Eleanor noticed. She was all too aware of the closeness between them.
The distance was not improper, not even remarkable by the standards of the dance, and yet it felt different now that she had allowed herself to consider it.
She had expected tension, or at least something to mark the difference between them, but there was none.
"You are quiet," she said.
"I am concentrating."
"On avoiding that young lady?"
"No."
"On what, then?"
"The dance."
Eleanor tilted her head, though he did not look at her to see it.
"You are doing very well," she said. "You may relax."
"I am relaxed."
"Then I would hate to see you otherwise."
She let out a small breath that might have been a laugh, though it lacked its earlier brightness. The music carried them through the final movements, the set drawing gradually to its close. For a moment longer than necessary, neither of them spoke.
Then the last note faded. Lord Harrowby released her hand at once, stepping back with the same composed precision she was used to.
"You are safe now," she said, looking to the young lady who had gone to another gentleman. "Your pursuer appears to have been diverted."
"I had every confidence in your success."
She studied him briefly, as though expecting something more, some acknowledgment beyond the practical.
None came, of course.
"Is that all?" she asked.
"For the moment. I shall find you if I need you a second time."
"How efficient," she said, albeit sharper than intended. "If you will excuse me."
Eleanor left the ballroom without another word. The music continued behind her as she stepped into the corridor. A few guests lingered along the passage, speaking in lowered voices as the evening began to draw to a close, but no one stopped her. She was grateful for that.
It had been a mistake to be there as long as she had.
She had known, from the moment she arrived that evening, that she would not enjoy herself in the way she once might have.
The effort of it alone had been enough. The smiles, the conversations, the constant awareness of being observed and assessed, it had all felt as though she were performing something she no longer fully believed in.
Eleanor slowed slightly as she reached the staircase, her hand resting against the banister for just a moment before she began to climb.
She had not expected Lord Harrowby to be there that evening. That, she told herself firmly, was the only explanation for the unsettled feeling she could not quite dismiss. It had been a surprise and nothing more.
There was nothing in their dance, either. He had required assistance, and she had provided it. There was no reason to assign it any greater significance.
Her fingers tightened briefly against the fabric of her gown before she forced them to relax.
He had hardly even looked at her. It meant nothing– less than nothing.
Julian Harrowby was not a man inclined toward unnecessary attention.
His focus had been elsewhere, as it always was.
There was no mystery in that, no cause for reflection.
If anything, it ought to have reassured her, as it confirmed that nothing had changed.
She reached her door and paused, her hand resting lightly against the handle before she turned it. The room beyond was quiet, her maid already having prepared it for the night. Eleanor stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
For a moment, she remained where she was, and then she crossed to the dressing table and removed her gloves with careful precision, laying them neatly beside one another.
It would be a long week in his presence, but a mere week nonetheless.
She had not attended the party for pleasure. That had been made clear to her before she ever left London. Her brother had not had to convince her to go, either. Anyone there might have thought that it was so she could find a husband, but they would have been mistaken.
She was there simply for a change of scene. She had accepted the invitation not because she wished to, but because she had run out of reasons to refuse.
London had become difficult.
Eleanor stilled, her hand resting against the edge of the table. Difficult was an insufficient word. It suggested inconvenience, something minor that would be easily managed with the right attitude.
She drew a slow breath and reached for the pins in her hair, removing them one by one and placing them carefully on the table without looking at them.
It was done. She was in the country. Whatever had been believed in London, whatever had been hoped for, it had come to nothing. There was no use in returning to it, no purpose in revisiting something that had already been resolved.
She would not make that mistake again.
The last pin slipped free, and her hair fell more loosely around her shoulders. Eleanor set the pin aside and met her own reflection for a brief moment.
The stay would be brief, but long enough to allow the matter to fade. When she returned to London, it would be nothing more than a passing disappointment.
Then she remembered the steadiness of his hand. Eleanor blinked, the thought catching her off guard.
It was absurd, entirely so. Of all the things to remain, it was that which returned most clearly.
Not the conversation, not the familiar sharpness of his remarks, but the way he had guided her through the dance as though it required no effort at all.
She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, though there was little humor in it.
Eleanor reached for the lamp, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before lowering the flame. Darkness settled gradually around the room. It should have been enough, and it would be, she told herself firmly.
By morning, it would be.