She held his gaze, steady and unafraid.
“I want you to decide,” she said. “Either I am your wife in public as well as private, or I am a convenient symbol you place where it suits you.”
Silence stretched between them.
James said nothing.
Eleanor nodded once. “Very well.”
She turned away, her heart pounding, her confidence blazing brighter for having been used.
And behind her, James stood frozen, watching the woman he had married walk away with a fire in her eyes that he had helped ignite.
CHAPTER 23
By the final hour of the ball, James had accounted for nearly every man of consequence in the room.
Harrowby lingered near the west windows as expected, circulating just enough to appear sociable while never remaining long in one place. Fenwick drank too much and spoke too freely, though only to those he believed unimportant. Carlisle had arrived late and left early, claiming a headache, which James did not believe for a moment. Two men who should have spoken did not. One who should not have approached Eleanor had done so anyway.
Roderick murmured names at his side, each one catalogued, weighed, and quietly dismissed or retained. None had slipped entirely. None had revealed enough.
The murderer remained somewhere among them, hidden behind courtesy and candlelight.
Roderick stood beside him, watching the crowd.
“You are missing it,” Roderick said quietly.
James did not ask what he meant. “I am watching.”
“You are not watching anything but your wife,” Roderick replied.
James folded his hands behind his back. “I am ensuring nothing improper occurs as a husband should.”
Roderick glanced toward Eleanor, who stood near the far edge of the floor, her posture elegant, her smile flawless, her patience visibly strained if one knew where to look.
“She looks furious,” Roderick said.
“No,” James replied, shaking his head.
James remained where he was, though every instinct urged him to move because his friend was correct. Eleanor looked as if she could burn a hole right through him with her stare – like a gorgon or something.
“She looks like a woman deciding how much longer she intends to let her husband breathe,” Roderick corrected.
James’s jaw tightened. “I do not require commentary.”
Roderick could not stifle his laugh as he clapped a hand onto James’s shoulder. “And yet you remain here, my friend.”
James said nothing. The ballroom had settled into its late-evening rhythm. The earlier brilliance had softened into something warmer, looser. Guests laughed more freely now. Gowns whispered instead of announced. Even the candles seemed to burn with less ceremony.
The maestro approached discreetly, bowing his head slightly. “Your Grace.”
James turned. “Yes.”
“The final set will begin shortly,” the man said.
James nodded. “Thank you.”
The maestro withdrew.
