Chapter 13 #2
Eleanor allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor, keenly aware of his hand at her waist, the careful distance between their bodies as they began to move with the music.
His Grace was an excellent dancer, guiding her with confidence through the turns and sweeps of the waltz.
Yet she could not help but notice his gaze occasionally drifting over her shoulder, scanning the room with the subtle alertness of a man searching for something—or someone.
Her stomach sank. Was he looking for his former love? Had their parting been less final than he claimed?
“You seem distracted, Your Grace,” she remarked, striving for a light tone.
His attention snapped back to her face. “Forgive me. I’m simply reacquainting myself with Society after my absence.”
“And finding it changed, perhaps?”
“Some things change,” he conceded, his hand tightening slightly at her waist as he guided her through a particularly challenging turn. “Others remain precisely as one remembers them.”
The intensity of his gaze as he said this made her feel uneasy. For a moment, the crowded ballroom seemed to recede, leaving only the two of them captured in the swell of music, the warmth of his hand against her back, the subtle scent of his cologne.
Then the music ended, breaking the spell. As they separated, a tall gentleman approached, his elegant attire and confident bearing marking him as a man of consequence.
“Lady Sinclair,” he said with a slight bow, using her former title. “How delightful to see you emerging from your seclusion. Might I claim the next dance?”
The Duke of Westmore’s expression remained pleasant, but Eleanor felt the sudden tension radiating from him. “Lord Croft,” he acknowledged with a coolness that belied his smile. “How thoughtful of you to greet my wife. Though I believe you misspoke—she is Duchess of Westmore now.”
“Of course,” Lord Croft replied smoothly, though his eyes held a calculating gleam. “Forgive the oversight. Your return to London was so unexpected, one hardly knows what to think. The duchess and I are old acquaintances, you see.”
Eleanor frowned slightly. Lord Croft had pursued her but she would hardly call him an acquaintance. Before she could correct this misrepresentation, His Grace spoke.
“Then I’m certain you’ll understand if I ask you to excuse us. My wife has promised this dance to me.”
“Actually,” Eleanor interjected, curious about Damien’s obvious dislike for the man, “I believe I can spare one dance, Lord Croft. If my husband doesn’t object?”
The look the duke gave her contained a clear warning, but his smile remained fixed. “Of course not, darling. I shall await your return with great anticipation.”
As Lord Croft led her toward the dance floor, Eleanor glanced back to see His Grace watching them, his jaw tight with tension despite his outward display of cordiality.
The mystery of his reaction—and his connection to both Lord Croft and the auburn-haired woman—would require further investigation.
For now, she would see what information she might glean from her dance partner.
Damien pressed himself into the shadow of a marble column, his eyes fixed on the dance floor where Croft led Eleanor through a country dance. The man’s head was bent toward hers, his smile predatory in a way that made Damien’s blood boil.
Watching Croft’s hand settle at his wife’s waist, Damien fought the urge to intervene. The man’s predatory gaze swept over Eleanor with obvious possession, igniting a fierce protectiveness in Damien’s chest—a possessiveness he’d never experienced with any woman, not even Laura.
Eleanor was his. His duchess, his responsibility, his to protect. The wedding vows might have been a convenient fiction, but the fierce need to shield her from Croft’s machinations was devastatingly real.
The dance ended seemingly without incident. Damien was about to reclaim his wife when another gentleman, Lord Brickenridge, approached and bowed over her hand.
“Damien.”
The soft voice behind him pulled his attention away from the dance floor. He turned to find Laura Dunsmoor standing there, her eyes wide with emotion, her hands clasped tightly before her.
“When did you return?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“A fortnight ago,” he replied, feeling only numbness at her presence. Whatever she’d been through in the year past, it had added a maturity that suited her delicate features.
“Is it true, then? You’ve married Lady Sinclair?”
“It is.” He glanced back toward the dance floor, unwilling to lose sight of Eleanor for long.
Laura stepped closer, the familiar scent of lavender water stirring unwanted memories. “I didn’t realize you’d give your heart so easily. To a stranger no less.”
The words roused something bitter in him. “You refused me three years ago.”
“I refused to move to Singapura with you,” she corrected, her eyes flashing with hurt and anger. “To chase after your brother, to be his caretaker—not to marry you. There’s a difference.”
“You rejected my proposal,” Damien said flatly. “You made it quite clear you wanted no part in my family’s troubles. You only wanted me for the luxury I could provide.”
“Because you asked me to abandon everything—my family, my position in Society—to follow you across the world on your brother’s self-destructive path!
” Laura’s voice rose slightly before she caught herself.
“I loved you, Damien. I would have married you without hesitation had you chosen to stay in England, to let Dominic face the consequences of his own actions.”
“It wasn’t his choice,” Damien replied, the old argument as fresh as the day they’d first had it.
“Perhaps not initially,” Laura insisted, “but it was his choice to steal the family fortune and squander it on opium. He brought that scandal upon himself—upon your family name.”
“He’s still my brother.” Damien’s voice was quiet but firm. “I couldn’t abandon him.”
“But you could abandon me.” Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I gave you my virtue, my soul, Damien. Yet you chose Dominic over our future together.”
The accusation no longer distressed him. Only frustration hovered. He had loved Laura once, had imagined a life with her. But when faced with the choice between saving his brother and building that life, there had been no real choice at all.
“You didn’t love me enough to come with me,” he said quietly. “To stand by me while I tried to save what remained of my family.”
“And do you love her?” Laura asked, her voice breaking slightly. “Or is she merely a convenient solution to your financial troubles, now that your brother has squandered the Westmore fortune?”
Damien stiffened. “My feelings for my wife are not your concern, Laura.”
“Tell me this, at least,” she persisted. “Does she know that you would abandon her just as you abandoned me? That when it comes to choosing between Dominic and anyone else, your brother will always win?”
Her words brought about an unexpected surge of dread at the thought of leaving Eleanor. The intensity of that feeling caught him off guard—when had the prospect of honoring their agreement begun to feel like loss rather than liberation?
Without another word, he turned and made his way through the crowd toward the dance floor, his eyes locked on Eleanor’s flowing form.
Temporary, he reminded himself firmly. Their arrangement remained temporary, regardless of how his body responded to her presence, regardless of his grudging admiration of her independence and determination.
Once Dominic was secured and Croft neutralized, he would honor their original agreement and leave London.
That’s what she wanted—what they’d both agreed upon from the beginning.
If only his heart would cooperate with that rational plan.
Lord Croft’s hand settled at her waist as they took their positions for the country dance.
He was handsome in an unconventional way—average height with aristocratic features and dark brown hair that was almost black.
His smile, however, didn’t quite reach his eyes and remained calculating as they assessed her.
“Allow me to offer my congratulations on the opening of your new hospital, Duchess,” he said as they moved through the opening steps. “And the return of your husband. Westmore’s return has caused quite a stir. None of us expected to see him in London again so soon.”
“Thank you, Lord Croft.” Eleanor kept her tone light and pleasant, the perfect society wife. “His Grace felt his business abroad was sufficiently settled to permit his return.”
“Indeed? And here I wondered what could possibly have drawn him back.” Croft’s smile widened. “Now I see the answer clearly. Who wouldn’t hasten home to such a beautiful bride?”
Eleanor offered a shy laugh at his flattery, all the while wondering why the viscount had suddenly taken such interest in her.
Did he suspect her of encroaching on his territory?
She knew Croft had financial interests in the docklands, including lending operations that charged exorbitant rates to desperate merchants—precisely the type of practices her own discreet investments sought to counteract.
“You’re too kind, my lord,” she demurred, adopting the slightly vapid manner that men like Croft expected from Society women. It was safer to be underestimated.
As Croft spun her through the next figure of the dance, Eleanor caught sight of the duke across the room.
“Your attention wanders, Duchess,” Croft observed, his tone knowing. “I see that Lady Laura is in attendance. She’s only recently returned from Bath. They made quite the handsome couple, before his hasty departure from London.”
“Lady Laura?” Eleanor asked, unable to resist seeking information despite her determination to appear indifferent.
“Lady Laura Dunsmoor, daughter of the Earl of Ashburnham,” Croft supplied. “They were all but betrothed before the scandal with his brother erupted. Society expected an announcement any day.”