Eleanor turned slightly, as if considering the room rather than the question. Beyond the circle of women, gentlemen moved in carefully measured arcs. There were glances angled toward her, then away, then back again. She recognized the pattern. Curiosity dressed as indifference.
“He looked,” Eleanor said, “as a man looks when he has decided something and does not intend to be argued out of it.”
Lady Calderwick sighed. “How romantic!”
“It is practical,” Eleanor corrected, because she could not help herself. Then, with a smile that softened the edge, she added, “Though practicality has its charms.”
Lady Harrowby’s eyes narrowed, as if she could sense a seam in the story and wanted only the smallest tug to unravel it. “And your father, Lord St. George–”
“Will be thrilled,” Eleanor finished before Lady Harrowby could frame it as a question that would trap her. “As any father would be.”
The lie tasted like nothing. She had swallowed worse in her life.
Lady Harrowby’s attention remained fixed on Eleanor’s face. “You do not seem… overwhelmed.”
Eleanor offered her the smile she reserved for difficult questions. “Should I swoon, Lady Harrowby? It would ruin my gown.”
Lady Calderwick laughed again. “Oh, youarea wonder.”
Eleanor’s gaze flicked toward the far end of the ballroom, where the open doors breathed in cool air from the terrace. For one reckless moment, she imagined slipping outside and standing in quiet, out of reach of glittering questions.
Then the circle tightened.
“Miss Barker,” Lady Harrowby said, voice soft with purpose, “you must understand – Some people have wondered –”
A hand caught Eleanor’s wrist.
Not a gentleman’s gloved touch. Not a flirtation.
A sister’s grip, urgent and unmistakable.
“Sister,” Arabella said through a smile that did not reach her eyes, “you are wanted. Immediately.”
Eleanor’s heart gave a single, sharp beat.
Arabella’s gaze locked onto hers, furious beneath the politeness, and she leaned close enough that her words struck like a whisper meant only for blood.
“What have you done?”
Arabella did not release her wrist until they had crossed the ballroom and slipped into the narrow antechamber that led tothe terrace. The music dulled behind them, replaced by the muted hum of conversation and the soft rush of night air through an open window.
Only then did Arabella turn.
Her smile vanished.
“What have youdone?” she demanded again in a fierce whisper. “Have you lost your senses entirely?”
Eleanor flexed her hand, easing her fingers from her sister’s grip. “You are bruising me.”
“Good,” Arabella said without apology. “You deserve worse.”
Eleanor glanced back toward the ballroom out of instinct. Even here, half-hidden behind a palm and a marble column, they were not truly alone. Privacy in thetonwas always conditional.
“Lower your voice,” Eleanor said calmly. “You sound as though I have set the house on fire.”
“You may as well have,” Arabella shot back. “Do you have any idea what they are saying? I heard it not ten minutes ago. Lady Fairleigh nearly choked on her syllabub repeating it.”
Eleanor tilted her head. “That I am betrothed?”
