Chapter 21 #2
Eleanor’s gown caught the candlelight and shifted color as she moved. Sea-glass, indeed. Blue, then green, then something pale and luminous.
“You chose well,” James said, because it was safe.
Eleanor’s eyes warmed. “I hoped you might think so.”
He should have stopped there.
He did not.
“And you,” Eleanor added, her voice quieter now, as if she were speaking only to him. “You look… severe.”
James’s mouth tightened. “That is not a compliment.”
Eleanor’s lips curved slightly. “It might be.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
She tilted her head, as if considering him. “You also smell incredible.”
The words were simple. The effect was not.
James felt heat rise in a place he did not wish to acknowledge. He let out a short sound, half laugh and half disbelief.
“You are not meant to say things like that in a ballroom,” he murmured.
Eleanor’s gaze held his, steady and unrepentant. “Am I not?”
“No.”
“And yet you are not telling me to stop,” she said.
James’s jaw clenched.
They turned again. The orchestra’s rhythm carried them. Eleanor moved with ease, but there was something beneath it now. A tension that belonged to them alone.
“Your theme is very subtle,” James said, returning to safe ground.
Eleanor’s eyes flicked toward the candles and flowers, then back to him. “It is meant to be. I did not want it to feel like decoration. I wanted it to feel like atmosphere.”
“It does.”
“And the schedule,” Eleanor continued, voice brisking a shade, as if she were grateful for the shift. “The supper will be served at ten. The second set begins shortly after nine. There are to be two intermissions so the orchestra may rest.”
James nodded. “Efficient.”
Eleanor’s expression softened. “You have not said whether you approve.”
James glanced down at her. “If I did not approve, I would have stopped it.”
Eleanor’s lips parted, then closed again. She looked away briefly, as if something in his tone had struck too close.
They completed another turn. The music began to approach its ending.
Eleanor’s hand in his felt warmer now. Or perhaps that was his imagination.
He should have released her when the dance ended.
He did not want to.
Eleanor looked up at him as the final notes approached, her expression carefully controlled, but her eyes carried a question she did not speak.
She wants another, he thought, startled by the clarity of it.
She wants me to ask again.
And he wanted to.
The last notes ended. The dancers bowed. Applause rose in polite waves.
James bowed to Eleanor.
“Thank you,” he said.
Eleanor dipped into a curtsey, her gaze still on him. “Of course.”
He offered his arm and guided her off the floor.
For a moment, it would have been easy to remain at her side. To ask her again. To keep her close enough that her scent and warmth did not fade.
But safety was not ease.
Safety was control.
James turned his head slightly and found Roderick watching from near the edge of the crowd, eyes bright with amusement and something sharper beneath it.
Business, James reminded himself.
The investigation. Harrowby. The driver’s name in the ledger. The need to watch who approached, who smiled too politely, who lingered.
He felt Eleanor’s gaze on him. He did not look at her.
“Roderick,” James said, pitching his voice casually.
Roderick approached with a grin. “A fine opening. I am shocked.”
James ignored the remark. “We should speak.”
Roderick’s eyes flicked to Eleanor. “Ah.”
Eleanor’s expression remained composed, but James saw the disappointment she was trying not to show. It was brief. It was controlled.
It still landed.
James forced his voice into calm politeness. “Enjoy the remainder of the set. I will return shortly.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened faintly around her fan. “Of course.”
James bowed, then turned away.
He heard her breath catch. Or perhaps he imagined it. Either way, he did not stop.
Roderick fell into step beside him, amusement fading as they moved toward the alcove near the far wall.
“You did it,” Roderick murmured. “You danced with her.”
“It was required.”
“No,” Roderick said. “It was chosen.”
James’s jaw tightened. “Speak of something useful.”
Roderick’s gaze sharpened. “Fine. Harrowby has arrived.”
James stilled. “Where?”
Roderick tipped his head subtly. “Near the second column by the west window. Speaking with Lord Fenwick.”
James followed the line of sight and saw him. Harrowby was not an imposing man. He did not need to be. His power was in his smile and his connections, in how easily people leaned toward him.
James’s hand tightened around his glove.
Roderick’s voice dropped. “He is watching you.”
“He can watch,” James said.
“And he is watching her,” Roderick added.
James’s chest tightened. “Who?”
Roderick inclined his head toward Eleanor.
James turned before he could stop himself.
Eleanor stood near the edge of the floor, posture perfect, expression calm. A gentleman had approached her. Not Harrowby. Younger. Familiar to her, by the ease of his smile.
He bowed and spoke to her. Eleanor responded politely. Then the man offered his hand.
Eleanor hesitated, just for a heartbeat.
Then she accepted.
James’s jaw clenched.
“She will dance with him,” Roderick murmured. “And she has every right.”
James forced himself to look away. “She can do as she pleases.”
Roderick’s tone was mild. “That is not what your face says.”
James’s gaze snapped to him. “Mind yourself.”
Roderick lifted his hands in surrender. “As you wish.”
James looked back across the ballroom.
Eleanor stepped onto the floor with the gentleman. She moved into position with him with perfect grace.
No one watching would suspect a fracture.
No one would guess that Eleanor had looked at James at the end of their dance like she had wanted him to keep her there.
No one.
Except Arabella.
James saw her across the room, standing near the edge of the crowd with Roderick at her side. Arabella was not smiling. Her gaze was on Eleanor, sharp and protective.
Then her eyes lifted, briefly, and met James’s.
It was not accusation.
It was assessment.
As if she were deciding what kind of man he was, and whether he was safe for her sister.
James looked away first.
He told himself it was because he needed to watch Harrowby.
Not because he could not bear the fact that Eleanor was dancing with another man, and the sight of her smile, even polite, even controlled, felt like a theft.
He forced his attention back to the room.
To the investigation.
To the faces.
To the danger he could name.
And not to the quiet truth that was becoming harder to deny.
He had walked away from Eleanor when she wanted him.
And he was not certain he would be able to forgive himself for it, even if she pretended she could.