Graham announced another family. Eleanor stepped forward, smile in place, and James followed her lead.
The line continued. Names and titles. Compliments offered and received. Eleanor moved with quiet confidence, answering each remark with the exact warmth required.
James found himself watching her again.
Noticing how she placed her hand on Arabella earlier, how she offered orders to staff without raising her voice, how she did not flinch when Norman Barker’s shadow passed near the door.
She had gone from unwanted daughter to duchess in a matter of weeks. Yet she stood as if she had been waiting for the role her entire life.
It was unnerving.
At last the line thinned. The final guests were welcomed, and the hall shifted. The energy moved forward, drawn toward the ballroom doors where the orchestra’s first notes began to rise.
Graham stepped close. “Your Grace. The guests are assembled.”
James nodded. “Open the doors.”
The ballroom doors swung wide.
A soft murmur rolled through the crowd. Candlelight glimmered against gowns and polished boots. The blue tint in the wax turned white flowers into something pale and oceanic.
Eleanor’s breath caught beside him, just barely. He felt it more than heard it.
“It is done,” James said quietly.
Eleanor turned to him, her smile real for the first time that evening. “It is only beginning.”
James held her gaze a fraction too long.
Then he offered his arm, because it was expected, and led her into the ballroom.
The opening set began with the kind of music designed to gather attention.
It was not loud. It did not need to be. The orchestra played with controlled elegance, the notes drifting through the room like water over stone. Couples arranged themselves. Conversations softened. Eyes turned.
James stood at the edge of the floor with Eleanor at his side, and felt, with an unexpected surge of irritation, how many people were watching her.
They watched her gown. Her posture. The lift of her chin.
And they watched him.
He had brought her into this room. He had made her a duchess. They expected him to either claim her or dismiss her, and the room would decide what kind of man he was based on which he chose.
He had promised himself he would remain unmoved by such things.
He turned to Eleanor. “May I have this dance, Your Grace?”
Eleanor’s eyes widened slightly. It was a small reaction, quickly smoothed, but it struck him all the same. As if she had not truly believed he would do it.
“Of course,” she said.
He took her hand.
Her glove was cool against his palm. He led her onto the floor, placed his hand at her waist, and felt her inhale. Not fear. Not reluctance.
Recognition.
He remembered her too clearly. The way she had clutched at his shoulder. The way her breath had broken. The way his name had left her lips like it had been drawn from her, involuntary and intimate.
