Chapter 10 #2
“Thank you, husband,” Eleanor said as she took her seat. She folded her gloved hands in her lap and stared resolutely at the altar.
The pew was narrow.
And James sat beside her, his shoulder close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the layers of wool and linen. The air between them felt warmer, as though it had been caught and held.
She shifted slightly.
His arm did not move.
She drew a slow breath, then another, and told herself that this was nothing. It was simply proximity. A simple matter of space.
Her fan slipped open with a soft click.
She fluttered it once.
Twice.
James’s gaze remained forward, but she heard him say her name. A warning. “Eleanor.”
She sighed and fluttered her fan again. “James,” she whispered back, nearly inaudible, but she knew he heard her.
The sermon was nearly over, she knew that, but still her pulse beat too quickly. The air felt close, scented faintly with candle wax and winter wool and something she knew belonged only to him.
Her thoughts tangled. Her attention slid, traitorous, to the line of his jaw, the quiet rise and fall of his chest.
She shifted again.
Her knee brushed his and James’s fingers twitched.
She closed her fan quietly.
Do not fidget, Arabella’s voice whispered.
She opened the fan again.
Minutes stretched. Words flowed from the pulpit, but Eleanor could not have repeated a single one if asked. She was aware only of the steady nearness of her husband, the way the warmth of him seemed to press into her side as if it were seeking her out.
Her fan fluttered again.
James’s hand rose, not looking at her, and stilled it. “Eleanor,” he said again. Another warning.
The contact was brief. Controlled. But it still made her heart leap. She swallowed and stared harder at the altar.
It was as though her skin had become more sensitive to every movement, every brush of fabric, every shift of air between them.
What is wrong with me? She thought desperately, and her fan slipped again.
James leaned closer, his voice low, barely a breath against her ear. “Contain yourself, Eleanor.”
Her heart stuttered.
“Contain?” she whispered back, mortified.
His gaze did not turn, but his voice dropped further. “You will be noticeable.”
Her stomach dipped. “Can they tell?”
“No,” he murmured. “But I can.”
Her breath caught.
She hesitated, then whispered, “I do not understand what is happening.”
His inhale was slow and deliberate. She felt it more than heard it, as though the air itself were reacting to him.
“Do not,” he said softly, “give anyone reason to look.”
“Should I leave?” she asked, her voice barely sound. “If they can tell…”
“No.” James shifted closer.
Her senses reeled. The space between them vanished, replaced by the solid, undeniable nearness of him. He drew in another breath, deeper this time, and the faintest brush of his knuckles touched her sleeve.
Her pulse raced.
The act of his breathing felt charged, as though he were deliberately reminding her that he was there, that he was aware of her in ways she did not yet understand.
She pressed her lips together, her fan trembling slightly in her hand.
Then, at last, the service ended.
Eleanor rose with the congregation, relief rushing through her in a dizzying wave. She smoothed her gown, gathered her composure, and stepped forward at James’s side as though nothing at all had happened.
They moved through the aisle together, slow and measured.
Outside, sunlight struck her eyes, and the low hum of polite conversation surrounded them at once.
Lady Calderwick approached first, her expression bright with practiced warmth. “Your Grace,” she said to Eleanor, dipping into a curtsy. “You look radiant.”
“Marriage suits you,” Lady Penhurst added lightly.
Lady Harrowby smiled knowingly. “The glow of a new bride is unmistakable.”
Eleanor’s cheeks warmed, but she inclined her head gracefully. “You are very kind.”
James’s hand rested at the small of her back. “We are quite happy,” he said smoothly.
The words settled around them like a shield.
The ladies murmured their approval and moved on.
Eleanor’s pulse took longer to settle as she chanced a glance toward the pews where Arabella would be.
Her sister’s smile was easily spotted in the crowd, and it settled her.
But right as her sister’s gloved hand rose to wave at her, James was leading her away.
“Wait, husband– my sister–”
He turned, spotting the Baron and his daughters, and whispered into her hair, “We must away, wife. Another time.”
She glanced back toward Arabella, her features conveying her disappointment, but her sister only nodded and smiled genuinely before turning away.
They rode back to Blackmere Park in silence.
At first.
The carriage had barely cleared the churchyard when James turned to her. “What,” he said pinching the bridge of his nose, “were you doing in church?”
Her gaze snapped to his. “I was sitting.”
He did not smile. “Do not insult us both.”
Her hands clenched in her lap. “I told you, I do not know what is happening to me.”
His brows drew together. “That does not excuse, Eleanor.”
“Then explain it!” she burst out, the words tumbling over one another. “Help me! Be on my side! Do not leave me in the dark, James. You clearly know what is happening!” She stopped, breath catching, pride warring with something far more vulnerable. “I was composed.”
His voice dropped, low and controlled. “You were not… as composed as you believe.”
Her breath stuttered.
He leaned slightly closer, his gaze drifting to the pale curve of her neck, then to the line of her collarbone, then lower still before she could stop watching him.
Her knees pressed together instinctively. “I am used to pretending that all is well. No one could even tell I was –”
His eyes lifted to her face.
“Your lack of education will be remedied,” he murmured.
The words struck her like a spark to dry tinder, and her mind went oddly blank.
Her spine stiffened. She yanked her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “By whom? You?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
The carriage rolled to a stop.
James opened the door and stepped out without another word.
Eleanor remained seated for a moment, her heart racing, her thoughts in disarray, acutely aware of the strange, unsteady fire curling low in her chest.
And just as aware that whatever James Montague intended to teach her, whenever that might happen, he was very certain she would not forget it.