She wore blue.
Not the pale, insipid shades favored by theton, 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.
