James’s chest tightened.
“You do not have the right to be angry,” Roderick said.
“I am not angry.”
“You are,” Roderick replied. “You are simply choosing a more respectable name for it.”
James swallowed. “She may dance with whomever she chooses.”
“And that is precisely why this troubles you,” Roderick said. “Because you cannot forbid it without admitting what you feel.”
James’s jaw clenched. “What I feel is irrelevant.”
Roderick sighed. “You are becoming predictable.”
James shot him a look. “You are becoming tedious.”
Roderick smiled faintly. “And you are becoming jealous.”
James turned away before his face could betray him. “We have business.”
“Yes,” Roderick said. “We do.”
James forced his attention back to the room. To Harrowby, who lingered near the west window. To the men circling him. To the subtle exchanges that mattered.
But his gaze kept returning to Eleanor.
The way she moved. The way she held herself. The way another man’s hand rested where James’s had been only minutes earlier.
Possessive, he thought grimly.
The word unsettled him more than jealousy would have.
Eleanor accepted the gentleman’s hand with composure, though her pulse had not yet steadied from watching James walk away.
“Your Grace,” the man said warmly. “I wondered if you might remember me.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Mr. Whitaker.”
His smile widened. “I am flattered.”
“You were difficult to forget,” Eleanor replied lightly.
He laughed. “I imagine I was.”
They moved into position as the orchestra began again. His hold was proper, respectful, familiar in a way that surprised her.
“It has been some time,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You look well,” he continued. “Very well.”
“Thank you.”
“I heard you had married,” he said, as if this were a small curiosity.
She met his eyes calmly. “I have.”
