Chapter 22
“You abandoned her.”
James did not look at Roderick. “I stepped away.”
Roderick snorted softly. “You walked off the floor the moment she wanted you to stay.”
James kept his gaze fixed on the far side of the ballroom, where the orchestra had just begun another set. “You are imagining things.”
“I am observing,” Roderick replied. “There is a difference.”
James turned sharply. “Stay out of it.”
Roderick lifted his brows. “I will not. You asked me to watch this room, and I am watching it. Including you.”
James exhaled through his nose. “We are not here to discuss my marriage.”
“And yet,” Roderick said, folding his arms, “it is the most interesting thing happening in this room.”
James ignored him.
Eleanor stood across the ballroom, her sea-glass gown catching the candlelight with every movement.
The fabric skimmed her form with deliberate precision, elegant and controlled, revealing just enough to be dangerous.
He found himself tracking the line of her back, the way her shoulders rose and fell as she laughed politely at something her partner said.
She wore blue.
Not the pale, insipid shades favored by the ton, but a deep, shifting hue that made her skin luminous. His favorite color, though he had never told her that.
“You are staring,” Roderick said quietly.
James stiffened. “I am watching the room.”
Roderick followed his gaze. “Of course you are.”
James’s jaw tightened. “The purpose of this marriage was clear. I married her to show that I am no longer consumed by the past. That my life continues. That I am focused elsewhere.”
“And you think dancing with your wife undermines that?” Roderick asked.
“I think lingering does.”
Roderick studied him. “You think caring does.”
James did not answer.
“The man who arranged your parents’ deaths,” Roderick continued, lowering his voice, “needs to believe you are settled. Content. Distracted.”
“Yes,” James said sharply. “Exactly.”
“And yet you left her standing there,” Roderick said. “Which looks less like contentment and more like avoidance.”
James’s fingers curled against his glove. “She understands.”
Roderick’s expression softened just a fraction. “Does she?”
James looked away.
“She chose that gown for you,” Roderick said.
James snapped his head back. “You do not know that.”
“I do,” Roderick replied calmly. “Women do not select colors like that without intention.”
James’s gaze returned to Eleanor. The way the dress moved when she turned, the way it emphasized her waist, the way her partner’s hand hovered with careful respect at her back. The sight stirred something sharp and unwelcome in his chest.
“She is well cared for,” James said, as if that settled it.
“No one is disputing that,” Roderick said. “The question is whether she feels chosen.”
James’s eyes narrowed. “That is not relevant.”
“It is,” Roderick replied. “Because men who feel chosen behave differently. And men who feel ignored make mistakes.”
James turned fully on him. “Enough.”
Roderick held his gaze without flinching. “You think this is about possession.”
“It is not.”
“And yet,” Roderick said quietly, “your expression just changed.”
James followed Roderick’s line of sight without meaning to.
Eleanor’s partner leaned in slightly, saying something that made her smile. Not the practiced smile she wore in the receiving line, but something softer. Real.
James’s chest tightened.
“You do not have the right to be angry,” Roderick said.
“I am not angry.”
“You are,” Roderick replied. “You are simply choosing a more respectable name for it.”
James swallowed. “She may dance with whomever she chooses.”
“And that is precisely why this troubles you,” Roderick said. “Because you cannot forbid it without admitting what you feel.”
James’s jaw clenched. “What I feel is irrelevant.”
Roderick sighed. “You are becoming predictable.”
James shot him a look. “You are becoming tedious.”
Roderick smiled faintly. “And you are becoming jealous.”
James turned away before his face could betray him. “We have business.”
“Yes,” Roderick said. “We do.”
James forced his attention back to the room. To Harrowby, who lingered near the west window. To the men circling him. To the subtle exchanges that mattered.
But his gaze kept returning to Eleanor.
The way she moved. The way she held herself. The way another man’s hand rested where James’s had been only minutes earlier.
Possessive, he thought grimly.
The word unsettled him more than jealousy would have.
Eleanor accepted the gentleman’s hand with composure, though her pulse had not yet steadied from watching James walk away.
“Your Grace,” the man said warmly. “I wondered if you might remember me.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Mr. Whitaker.”
His smile widened. “I am flattered.”
“You were difficult to forget,” Eleanor replied lightly.
He laughed. “I imagine I was.”
They moved into position as the orchestra began again. His hold was proper, respectful, familiar in a way that surprised her.
“It has been some time,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You look well,” he continued. “Very well.”
“Thank you.”
“I heard you had married,” he said, as if this were a small curiosity.
She met his eyes calmly. “I have.”
He nodded, approving. “A duke. I should have guessed.”
Eleanor raised a brow. “Should you have?”
“Yes,” he said. “You were always meant for more than your circumstances allowed.”
Her step faltered for just a fraction of a second.
“I recall,” she said evenly, “that you once believed my circumstances disqualifying.”
His expression shifted. Not embarrassment, but rueful honesty.
“I believed what I was told,” he said quietly.
“And what were you told?”
“That you had no fortune,” he replied. “And that pursuing you would invite unpleasant consequences.”
She inhaled slowly. “My father.”
“Yes,” he said. “He was very clear.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “Clear is one word for it.”
He hesitated, then said, “It was not as he later described it.”
She glanced up at him. “Oh.”
“He claimed I had withdrawn,” Mr. Whitaker continued. “That I had lost interest. That I preferred your sister.”
Eleanor stiffened. “Charlotte.”
“Yes,” he said, with a grimace. “Which was untrue.”
She studied his face. “What was true?”
“That he threatened me,” Mr. Whitaker said quietly. “He said if I returned, it would be for Charlotte, or not at all.”
Eleanor’s chest tightened, but she kept her expression composed. “I see.”
“I did not want Charlotte,” he said gently. “I wanted you.”
The words landed softly, without expectation or claim.
“That was a long time ago,” Eleanor said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And I was a coward.”
She met his gaze. “You were practical.”
“I was afraid,” he corrected. “There is a difference.”
They turned together as the music shifted. The ballroom blurred at the edges.
“I am glad to see you well,” he said. “Truly. You look… safe.”
Eleanor smiled faintly. “That is a kind thing to say.”
“It is the truth,” he replied. “And your husband. He seems attentive.”
She glanced across the room without meaning to.
James stood near the edge of the floor, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. His gaze was fixed in her direction.
Their eyes met.
Something flared low in her chest. Not pain. Not longing.
Resolve.
“He is,” she said calmly.
Mr. Whitaker followed her gaze, then looked back at her. “You are loved,” he said.
She did not answer.
As the dance ended, he bowed. “Thank you for indulging an old memory.”
Eleanor inclined her head. “Thank you for correcting it.”
He smiled, then stepped away.
Eleanor stood still for a moment, gathering herself.
Then she lifted her chin and crossed the floor.
James saw her coming.
She could tell by the way his shoulders tensed, by the way his attention sharpened as though bracing for impact.
Good, she thought.
She stopped before him, her expression calm, her voice low.
“You left rather abruptly,” she said.
James’s gaze flicked to Roderick, then back to her. “There was business.”
“There is always business,” Eleanor replied. “And yet you found time to open the ball.”
His jaw tightened. “That was expected.”
“So was continuing,” she said quietly.
Roderick cleared his throat. “I will find something else to do.”
James did not stop him.
Eleanor stepped closer, lowering her voice further. “You do not get to pretend this does not affect me.”
James met her gaze. “I am not pretending.”
“You are,” she said. “You simply believe restraint makes it invisible.”
His eyes darkened. “This is not the place.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it is the moment.”
He exhaled slowly. “What do you want, Eleanor.”
She held his gaze, steady and unafraid.
“I want you to decide,” she said. “Either I am your wife in public as well as private, or I am a convenient symbol you place where it suits you.”
Silence stretched between them.
James said nothing.
Eleanor nodded once. “Very well.”
She turned away, her heart pounding, her confidence blazing brighter for having been used.
And behind her, James stood frozen, watching the woman he had married walk away with a fire in her eyes that he had helped ignite.