A performance of harmony.
Eleanor drew in a slow breath and let it out carefully.
“All Saints is a long service,” Arabella had once whispered to her, years ago, with the solemn authority of someone who had survived it more than once. “Do not fidget. Father will notice.”
Eleanor had smiled at the time.
She did not smile now.
The ducal pew stood slightly elevated, framed by carved oak that seemed designed to remind everyone within sight that rank could be measured not only by land and title but by the distance between one’s knees and the floor.
“Wife,” James said, holding his hand out to gesture her inside the pew. The moment she stepped into it; she felt the weight of attention settle over her like a cloak.
Eyes turned. Heads inclined. A murmur rippled faintly through the nave before discipline returned.
“Thank you, husband,” Eleanor said as she took her seat. She folded her gloved hands in her lap and stared resolutely at the altar.
The pew was narrow.
And James sat beside her, his shoulder close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the layers of wool and linen. The air between them felt warmer, as though it had been caught and held.
She shifted slightly.
His arm did not move.
She drew a slow breath, then another, and told herself that this was nothing. It was simply proximity. A simple matter of space.
Her fan slipped open with a soft click.
She fluttered it once.
Twice.
James’s gaze remained forward, but she heard him say her name. A warning. “Eleanor.”
She sighed and fluttered her fan again. “James,” she whispered back, nearly inaudible, but she knew he heard her.
The sermon was nearly over, she knew that, but still her pulse beat too quickly. The air felt close, scented faintly with candle wax and winter wool and something she knew belonged only to him.
Her thoughts tangled. Her attention slid, traitorous, to the line of his jaw, the quiet rise and fall of his chest.
She shifted again.
Her knee brushed his and James’s fingers twitched.
She closed her fan quietly.
Do not fidget, Arabella’s voice whispered.
She opened the fan again.
Minutes stretched. Words flowed from the pulpit, but Eleanor could not have repeated a single one if asked. She was aware only of the steady nearness of her husband, the way the warmth of him seemed to press into her side as if it were seeking her out.
Her fan fluttered again.
James’s hand rose, not looking at her, and stilled it. “Eleanor,” he said again. Another warning.
The contact was brief. Controlled. But it still made her heart leap. She swallowed and stared harder at the altar.
