Chapter 23
By the final hour of the ball, James had accounted for nearly every man of consequence in the room.
Harrowby lingered near the west windows as expected, circulating just enough to appear sociable while never remaining long in one place.
Fenwick drank too much and spoke too freely, though only to those he believed unimportant.
Carlisle had arrived late and left early, claiming a headache, which James did not believe for a moment.
Two men who should have spoken did not. One who should not have approached Eleanor had done so anyway.
Roderick murmured names at his side, each one catalogued, weighed, and quietly dismissed or retained. None had slipped entirely. None had revealed enough.
The murderer remained somewhere among them, hidden behind courtesy and candlelight.
Roderick stood beside him, watching the crowd.
“You are missing it,” Roderick said quietly.
James did not ask what he meant. “I am watching.”
“You are not watching anything but your wife,” Roderick replied.
James folded his hands behind his back. “I am ensuring nothing improper occurs as a husband should.”
Roderick glanced toward Eleanor, who stood near the far edge of the floor, her posture elegant, her smile flawless, her patience visibly strained if one knew where to look.
“She looks furious,” Roderick said.
“No,” James replied, shaking his head.
James remained where he was, though every instinct urged him to move because his friend was correct. Eleanor looked as if she could burn a hole right through him with her stare – like a gorgon or something.
“She looks like a woman deciding how much longer she intends to let her husband breathe,” Roderick corrected.
James’s jaw tightened. “I do not require commentary.”
Roderick could not stifle his laugh as he clapped a hand onto James’s shoulder. “And yet you remain here, my friend.”
James said nothing. The ballroom had settled into its late-evening rhythm. The earlier brilliance had softened into something warmer, looser. Guests laughed more freely now. Gowns whispered instead of announced. Even the candles seemed to burn with less ceremony.
The maestro approached discreetly, bowing his head slightly. “Your Grace.”
James turned. “Yes.”
“The final set will begin shortly,” the man said.
James nodded. “Thank you.”
The maestro withdrew.
Roderick’s brows lifted. “Last dance?”
“Yes.”
“With your wife,” Roderick added.
James’s gaze flicked back to Eleanor.
She had moved again. Another gentleman stood near her now, speaking animatedly. Eleanor listened politely, but her attention drifted. Not toward the man beside her.
Toward him.
James felt it then, sharp and undeniable. The pull. The expectation.
The right thing, a voice insisted.
Not the safe thing.
Not the controlled thing.
The right thing.
“You know what you must do,” Roderick said quietly.
James exhaled. “I know what is expected.”
Roderick studied him. “For once, those may be the same.”
James did not give himself time to reconsider.
He crossed the ballroom with long, deliberate strides, cutting through conversation and candlelight alike. He saw Eleanor register his approach out of the corner of her eye. Her spine stiffened. Her chin lifted.
Good, he thought grimly. Let her be angry.
He stopped before her and inclined his head. “Your Grace.”
Her eyes met his. Cool. Controlled. Dangerous. “Your Grace.”
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
A pause. Long enough for anyone watching to lean in.
“Yes,” Eleanor said at last, placing her hand in his.
The orchestra began.
James drew her close, closer than strictly necessary, closer than was wise. He felt her inhale sharply, felt the tension in her body as it pressed against his.
He told himself it was for the show.
The closing dance mattered. Appearances mattered. Newlyweds closing the ball together was expected. Reassuring. Safe.
But when her waist fit against his hand like it had been made for it, when the heat of her seeped through fabric and restraint alike, the justification rang hollow.
“Smile,” Eleanor murmured, her lips barely moving.
“I am,” James replied.
She huffed softly. “You are glaring.”
“Then give me something to smile about.”
Her eyes flashed. “You chose this moment.”
“I am doing my duty, wife,” he said.
“For convenience and control,” she said quietly.
James guided her through the turn with precision. “Lower your voice.”
“Why?” she asked. “So they do not see us arguing?”
“So they do not hear,” he corrected.
Her mouth curved faintly. “Then we should seem to speak as lovers.”
James’s breath caught. “Careful.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “Or what?”
He did not answer. He pulled her closer, their bodies aligning in a way that made conversation impossible to ignore and impossible to hear.
To anyone watching, it would look intimate. Whispered words. Secret smiles.
“Better,” Eleanor murmured.
James felt his pulse in his throat. “You are enjoying this.”
“I am.”
He turned her again, his hand firm at her back. “You danced with him too easily.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You left me alone, James. At our ball. What was I to do?”
Before James could reply, Eleanor continued, with what he knew was really the issue at hand.
“And you expected me to accept it quietly.”
James’s grip tightened. “You knew why.”
“No,” Eleanor said softly. “I assumed.”
“Assumed what?”
“That you did not care,” she replied.
James’s jaw clenched. “That is not true.”
“And yet you left,” she said.
He felt irritation rise, sharp and unhelpful. “You enjoyed being asked?”
She laughed quietly. “You seemed to enjoy watching us. Perhaps I should have danced this dance with another.”
He stiffened. “That is not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” Eleanor asked.
James searched for an answer that did not betray him. “I am angry because you invited speculation.”
“You invited it first,” she replied.
The music swelled. He spun her, clean and controlled, then drew her back in, her breath catching as she settled against him again.
They looked like perfection.
Inside, everything frayed.
Eleanor’s voice dropped further, steady but charged. “I have followed every rule you set.”
James swallowed. “This is not the time.”
“It is the only time you cannot leave,” she said.
He guided her through another step, his voice low. “You agreed to those rules.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Because I believed they had purpose.”
“They do.”
“Then explain them,” Eleanor said. “Because I have never asked where you go. I have never questioned why you vanish. I have never demanded your time.” Her fingers curled slightly against his shoulder. “I honestly just assume you have a mistress.”
The words landed like a blow.
James’s anger evaporated instantly, replaced by shock so complete he nearly missed the next step.
“What?” he said.
She went on, voice tight but controlled. “You disappear. You set boundaries like walls. You dictate where I may stand and when. And you expect me to believe there is no other woman.”
James spun her abruptly, the movement sharp enough to draw a faint gasp from her lips. He caught her again without breaking rhythm and dipped her just enough that her throat arched back.
To the room, it looked dramatic. Devastatingly romantic.
His mouth brushed her collarbone, a brief, reverent touch. Nothing improper. Everything intimate.
“There is no other woman,” he said against her skin.
Her breath hitched.
He drew her upright, his hand firm at her waist. “There has been no one else since the day we married.”
Her eyes searched his face. “You swear it?”
“I do.”
The words were immediate.
Her expression softened, guilt flickering across it. “I am sorry,” she said. “I said it to hurt you.”
“You succeeded,” James replied quietly.
She nodded. “I know. I just cannot do this anymore.”
His chest tightened. “Do what?”
“Pretend that I am content with half a marriage,” Eleanor said. “Pretend that rules feel like protection instead of distance.”
The music slowed. The final notes approached.
James leaned closer. “Look at me.”
She hesitated.
“Eleanor,” he said. “Please.”
She lifted her gaze.
Everything else fell away.
“I am not angry because you danced with another man,” he said softly. “I am angry because I did not want you to.”
Her lips parted. “That sounds dangerously like jealousy.”
His silence served as his response, and Eleanor gave a shaky laugh. “At least you somewhat admit something.”
The music ended.
Applause rose around them.
Eleanor stepped back, her expression unreadable, then lowered herself into a deep, elegant curtsy. Dramatic. Perfect.
The crowd sighed as one.
James stood frozen.
Eleanor straightened, met his eyes once more, then turned and walked away.
Guests began to move. Cloaks were fetched. Carriages summoned.
James remained where he was, the echo of her warmth still in his hands, dread curling tight in his chest.
For the first time that evening, the room felt unbearably large.
And utterly empty without her.