He nodded, approving. “A duke. I should have guessed.”
Eleanor raised a brow. “Should you have?”
“Yes,” he said. “You were always meant for more than your circumstances allowed.”
Her step faltered for just a fraction of a second.
“I recall,” she said evenly, “that you once believed my circumstances disqualifying.”
His expression shifted. Not embarrassment, but rueful honesty.
“I believed what I was told,” he said quietly.
“And what were you told?”
“That you had no fortune,” he replied. “And that pursuing you would invite unpleasant consequences.”
She inhaled slowly. “My father.”
“Yes,” he said. “He was very clear.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “Clear is one word for it.”
He hesitated, then said, “It was not as he later described it.”
She glanced up at him. “Oh.”
“He claimed I had withdrawn,” Mr. Whitaker continued. “That I had lost interest. That I preferred your sister.”
Eleanor stiffened. “Charlotte.”
“Yes,” he said, with a grimace. “Which was untrue.”
She studied his face. “What was true?”
“That he threatened me,” Mr. Whitaker said quietly. “He said if I returned, it would be for Charlotte, or not at all.”
Eleanor’s chest tightened, but she kept her expression composed. “I see.”
“I did not want Charlotte,” he said gently. “I wanted you.”
The words landed softly, without expectation or claim.
“That was a long time ago,” Eleanor said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And I was a coward.”
She met his gaze. “You were practical.”
“I was afraid,” he corrected. “There is a difference.”
They turned together as the music shifted. The ballroom blurred at the edges.
“I am glad to see you well,” he said. “Truly. You look… safe.”
Eleanor smiled faintly. “That is a kind thing to say.”
“It is the truth,” he replied. “And your husband. He seems attentive.”
