“Yes?”
“I do not wish this to feel abrupt.”
“And yet,” she replied gently, “it is, and you had full control over this whole situation.”
He had no answer for that.
They stood in the entry hall together, the morning light too bright, too ordinary for what was happening. A footman waited near the door. The house held its breath.
James reached for his coat.
“This is where you say something reassuring,” Eleanor said quietly.
He looked at her, stricken. “I do not trust reassurances I cannot keep.”
She nodded. “That is at least honest.”
For a moment, neither moved.
She wanted to tell him to stay.
Tell him she would wait.
That love did not require distance.
But pride held her still.
James stepped closer. “I will write.”
“I would expect nothing less,” she said.
He took her hand.
The contact sent a sharp ache through her chest.
He lifted it and pressed his lips to her knuckles. The kiss lingered, just a fraction too long to be proper.
Just long enough to hurt.
When he straightened, his eyes searched hers. For permission. For absolution.
She gave him neither.
James released her hand and turned away.
The door opened. Cold air rushed in.
He did not look back.
Eleanor stood where he had left her, her hands clasped tightly before her, her expression serene.
She had felt foolish.
She had believed intimacy meant intention.
She had believed that love, once acknowledged, would be chosen.
Now she understood.
