Chapter 24
Morning arrived with an uncomfortable clarity.
James had not slept.
He lay awake through the small hours, staring at the ceiling as the house settled around him. The ball replayed itself relentlessly, not in music or movement, but in Eleanor’s face as she turned away from him. The way she bowed. The way she left him standing there while the room applauded.
He had meant to fix it.
He had only made it worse.
By the time daylight filtered through the curtains, Eleanor was already awake. Or at least gone. When he descended for breakfast, she was not there. The table was laid. The food untouched.
Mrs. Hargreaves did not comment. That, somehow, was worse.
Eleanor passed him once in the corridor later that morning, her expression cool and remote, her greeting formal enough to sting.
“Your Grace.”
The words cut deeper than any raised voice could have.
James spent the day attempting to work and failing entirely. Papers blurred. Names meant nothing. Every quiet corner of the house felt heavier without her presence in it.
By nightfall, he had reached the edge of his patience with himself.
Sleep refused him again.
The fire in his room had burned low when he finally rose, pulling on his coat and stepping into the corridor. He did not know what he intended to do. Only that remaining in bed felt unbearable.
The kitchen was warm when he entered, the scent of herbs and steam lingering in the air.
Eleanor stood at the table.
She had changed into a simple gown, her hair loose down her back. A kettle steamed beside her, and she held a teacup in both hands as though it were an anchor.
They both froze.
“Oh,” she said softly.
James swallowed. “I did not expect anyone else.”
“Neither did I,” Eleanor replied.
Silence followed. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just thick.
“Could you not sleep either?” James asked.
She nodded once. “I thought tea might help.”
He hesitated, then gestured toward the kettle. “May I?”
She inclined her head. “Of course.”
He poured himself a cup, the simple domesticity of the act grounding and disorienting all at once. They stood side by side without touching, the space between them charged.
“I am sorry,” James said at last.
Eleanor stiffened slightly. “For which part?”
“For all of it,” he replied.
She turned to look at him, clearly startled by the immediacy of it. “You are apologizing.”
“Yes.”
“For leaving me on the floor,” she said carefully. “For embarrassing me. Or for pretending not to see it?”
“All of it,” James repeated. “And for hurting you.”
Her brows knit. “You sound sincere.”
“I am,” he said quietly.
Eleanor studied his face as though searching for artifice. Whatever she found there made her shoulders loosen slightly.
“That is unexpected,” she admitted.
“I do not often apologize,” James said.
“No,” she agreed. “You do not.”
Another pause. This one softer.
She lifted her cup, then lowered it again. “I do not wish to argue.”
“Neither do I.”
Her lips curved faintly. “That is also unexpected.”
He huffed quietly. “You are enjoying this.”
“A little,” Eleanor admitted. “It is not often I find myself in a position of advantage.”
James met her gaze. “Then use it.”
Her eyes brightened. “Very well.”
She set her cup aside. “I am willing to forgive you.”
Relief surged through him, swift and profound. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she added.
He nodded. “Of course.”
“You will tell me,” Eleanor said, her voice steady but intent, “why you made those rules.”
James’s breath caught.
“The ones about your absences,” she continued. “About your work. About my questions.”
He hesitated.
She smiled knowingly. “Ah. There it is.”
He exhaled slowly. “You asked for honesty.”
“And you promised it,” she replied.
He studied her face. She was not demanding. She was not accusing. She was simply waiting.
“Very well,” James said.
James leaned back against the counter, considering his words.
“You expected me to hesitate,” Eleanor said lightly.
“I did,” he admitted.
“And yet you are smiling,” she observed.
He could not help it. “I find myself enjoying the role of penitent less than I thought.”
She stepped closer. “Then speak.”
“I am looking for something,” James said.
Her brows lifted. “Something.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Information. Proof. A truth I cannot yet name aloud.”
“That is why you leave,” Eleanor said slowly.
“Yes.”
“And why you do not wish me to ask where you go,” she continued.
“Yes.”
He met her gaze. “What I am doing matters. More than my comfort. More than my reputation.”
“And more than your marriage,” she asked softly.
James did not answer immediately. He stepped closer instead, closing the space between them.
“No,” he said at last. “But it endangers it.”
Her expression softened. “That is not the same thing.”
“I asked you not to disturb me when I am working,” he said. “Because I cannot afford distraction.”
Her eyes searched his face. “And am I a distraction?”
His voice dropped. “You are the only one.”
Her breath caught.
“Am I forgiven yet?” he asked quietly.
She laughed under her breath. “You are getting warmer.”
He took another step, close enough now that he could feel the warmth of her skin, smell the faint trace of tea and lavender.
“Then perhaps,” he said, “I should make a more persuasive case.”
She did not answer him at once.
Instead, Eleanor held his gaze, her expression unreadable, her breathing just slightly uneven.
The kitchen felt suddenly too small, the air thick with heat and unsaid things.
James became acutely aware of every inch between them, of how easily he could close it, and how dangerous that knowledge was.
“You always choose your words carefully,” she said at last. “Until you decide not to.”
“And you always notice,” he replied.
Her fingers curled lightly at her side, as if resisting the urge to reach for him. “If you do this,” she said, voice quiet but steady, “do not do it to distract me. Do not do it to win.”
His jaw tightened. “I would never use you that way.”
“Then tell me,” Eleanor said. “Tell me this is because you want me.”
The honesty of the moment struck him harder than any accusation. He stepped closer, slow enough that she could stop him. She did not.
“I want you,” James said simply.
Her breath left her in a soft, involuntary sound. The last of her teasing faded, replaced by something rawer, more vulnerable.
Her eyes darkened with understanding. “James.”
He brushed his thumb lightly along her wrist. Nothing improper. Everything intentional.
He leaned in, his voice low. “Tell me if I should stop.”
She did not answer.
He kissed her.
It was not hurried. It was not demanding. It was careful and reverent and devastating all at once. She made a small sound against his mouth that unraveled what little restraint he had left.
He reached around her, her body fitting perfectly in his hands, and lifted. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, as her hands pawed through his hair and she kissed him back.
James knew they would not make it to the bed chambers, so he simply turned around and placed her on the table, as he remained standing.
His fingers gently worked their way up to trace the curve of her jaw, his touch sending a shiver through her that only drove him madder with want.
He suddenly wanted to see all the ways he could make her shiver.
Eleanor's breath hitched, her body betraying her as she leaned into his touch. “James,” she protested weakly, even as her body ached for his.
James smiled, his fingers trailing down her neck, his thumb brushing over her collarbone. “Trust me.”
His hand continued its journey, his fingers deftly unbuttoning her blouse, revealing the lace bra beneath. He leaned down, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth, exploring, tasting. Eleanor moaned, her body melting into his.
His hands were everywhere, his fingers slowly unlacing the front of her dress, his other hand sliding down and slipping under the hem of her skirt. Eleanor gasped, her body arching into his touch as he kissed her deeply. Her sighs raked through him.
James’s fingers found her arousal easily, and he caressed her softly. He groaned, his mouth breaking away from hers. “This is mine,” he murmured, his fingers continuing their exploration.
Eleanor’s head fell back, her eyes closed, her body focused solely on the sensations James was evoking. His fingers were gentle, probing, and driving her wild. He could feel her body building, tensing, as her breaths came in short, sharp gasps.
His mouth found her breast, then, his tongue lapping at her nipple, his fingers continuing their relentless exploration of his wife. Eleanor cried out, her body convulsing as desire crashed over her, her juices flowing freely.
James did not stop, his fingers continuing to pulse into her, his mouth moving to her other breast, his tongue teasing, tasting, driving her wild. He wanted more. He wanted them all. Eleanor’s body was writhing beneath his touch.
James’s mouth moved lower, his tongue tracing a path down her stomach, his fingers still working her. He reached her sweet nectar, his tongue lapping at her juices, his fingers slipping out of her at a punishing rhythm, his thumb taking their place, rubbing slow circles over her apex.
Eleanor’s body bucked, her hands gripping the edge of the table, her body trembling with the force of her orgasm. James’s tongue delved into her, his tongue coaxing her climax, his thumb continuing to rub her, his other hand gripping her thigh, holding her in place.
He did not stop.
Her body was a quivering mess, and James’s mouth moved back up her body, his lips capturing hers, his tongue diving into her mouth, sharing her taste with her.
For a long moment afterward, neither of them spoke.
Eleanor remained where she was, her hand resting against his chest as if grounding herself, her breathing slowly evening out. James watched her face, searching for regret, for distance, for anything that would tell him he had misjudged the moment.
Instead, she looked thoughtful. Soft. Undone in a way that felt dangerously intimate.
“This,” she said quietly, “changes things.”
“Yes,” James replied.
Her eyes lifted to his. “It means I will not be so easily dismissed again.”
He nodded once. “Nor should you be.”
She studied him, then smiled faintly. “Good.”
The word settled between them, heavy with promise and warning both. And James’s mouth curved, “Am I forgiven now, wife?”
Eleanor’s cheeks were still flushed, her eyes bright, “That was highly unfair,” she said softly.
“Am I forgiven?”
She laughed. “Perhaps.”
She reached for her cup again, then paused. “Was that meant to distract me?”
“It served a few purposes,” he admitted.
She shook her head, amused. “You are terrible.”
James shrugged.
She smiled, then tilted her head. “And the attic?”
His expression shifted.
Her smile faded. “I should not have brought it up again.”
“On the contrary,” James said quietly. “You should have.”
She searched his face. “James.”
“I will not tell you,” he said.
Her shoulders tensed. “Then I will assume the worst.”
“You should assume nothing,” he replied.
She frowned. “Then what?”
He held her gaze. “Have you given any thought to me showing you instead of telling you?”
Her breath caught.
“When?” she asked.
“I will let you know when,” James said carefully. “I know that is not the answer you wished to hear tonight, but it will be soon.”
He took her hand, feeling the steady warmth of it in his. “And when I do, you will understand why I needed rules. Why I needed distance.”
She squeezed his fingers. “I would have understood sooner.”
“I know,” he said.
And for the first time since the ball, the dread that had settled in his chest eased slightly.