She glanced across the room without meaning to.
James stood near the edge of the floor, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. His gaze was fixed in her direction.
Their eyes met.
Something flared low in her chest. Not pain. Not longing.
Resolve.
“He is,” she said calmly.
Mr. Whitaker followed her gaze, then looked back at her. “You are loved,” he said.
She did not answer.
As the dance ended, he bowed. “Thank you for indulging an old memory.”
Eleanor inclined her head. “Thank you for correcting it.”
He smiled, then stepped away.
Eleanor stood still for a moment, gathering herself.
Then she lifted her chin and crossed the floor.
James saw her coming.
She could tell by the way his shoulders tensed, by the way his attention sharpened as though bracing for impact.
Good, she thought.
She stopped before him, her expression calm, her voice low.
“You left rather abruptly,” she said.
James’s gaze flicked to Roderick, then back to her. “There was business.”
“There is always business,” Eleanor replied. “And yet you found time to open the ball.”
His jaw tightened. “That was expected.”
“So was continuing,” she said quietly.
Roderick cleared his throat. “I will find something else to do.”
James did not stop him.
Eleanor stepped closer, lowering her voice further. “You do not get to pretend this does not affect me.”
James met her gaze. “I am not pretending.”
“You are,” she said. “You simply believe restraint makes it invisible.”
His eyes darkened. “This is not the place.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it is the moment.”
He exhaled slowly. “What do you want, Eleanor.”
