Roderick’s brows lifted. “Last dance?”
“Yes.”
“With your wife,” Roderick added.
James’s gaze flicked back to Eleanor.
She had moved again. Another gentleman stood near her now, speaking animatedly. Eleanor listened politely, but her attention drifted. Not toward the man beside her.
Toward him.
James felt it then, sharp and undeniable. The pull. The expectation.
The right thing, a voice insisted.
Not the safe thing.
Not the controlled thing.
The right thing.
“You know what you must do,” Roderick said quietly.
James exhaled. “I know what is expected.”
Roderick studied him. “For once, those may be the same.”
James did not give himself time to reconsider.
He crossed the ballroom with long, deliberate strides, cutting through conversation and candlelight alike. He saw Eleanor register his approach out of the corner of her eye. Her spine stiffened. Her chin lifted.
Good, he thought grimly.Let her be angry.
He stopped before her and inclined his head. “Your Grace.”
Her eyes met his. Cool. Controlled. Dangerous. “Your Grace.”
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
A pause. Long enough for anyone watching to lean in.
“Yes,” Eleanor said at last, placing her hand in his.
The orchestra began.
James drew her close, closer than strictly necessary, closer than was wise. He felt her inhale sharply, felt the tension in her body as it pressed against his.
He told himself it was for the show.
The closing dance mattered. Appearances mattered. Newlyweds closing the ball together was expected. Reassuring. Safe.
But when her waist fit against his hand like it had been made for it, when the heat of her seeped through fabric and restraint alike, the justification rang hollow.
“Smile,” Eleanor murmured, her lips barely moving.
“I am,” James replied.
She huffed softly. “You are glaring.”
