No rustle of movement behind the door.
Only a soft, almost inaudible, “Come in.”
He opened the door.
Eleanor did not rise to greet him. She remained seated on the edge of her bed, half turned toward the window, the lamplight gilding the pale curve of her shoulder. Her hair had been loosened for the night, dark waves spilling over the thin cotton of her nightgown. The covers were drawn up around her waist, as though she had wrapped herself deliberately in a boundary he was not meant to cross.
She did not look at him at first.
James felt the moment stretch.
He closed the door behind him.
“You did not come to the door,” he said.
“I did not feel well enough to stand,” Eleanor replied.
He studied her more closely then, and the faint tension he had carried into the room sharpened into something more focused.
“You are ill,” he said.
“I am not ill,” she said quickly. “Only… tired.”
James moved closer.
“You have been tired often,” he replied.
Her gaze flicked up, then away again. “You asked to speak with me.”
“Yes.”
He stopped a few feet from the bed, deliberately leaving space between them.
“I came to discuss a ball,” he said. “The start of the season.”
Her shoulders tensed. “Yes?”
“I had intended to discuss it this evening. Our first outing, together.”
Eleanor shifted slightly beneath the covers, her fingers tightening in the cotton. “Yes.”
James’s gaze moved to her face, and for the first time since he had entered, he truly saw her.
Her cheeks were flushed, but not with the warmth of candlelight alone. Her lashes cast faint shadows beneath her eyes. There was something subdued in her expression that did not sit easily with him.
“Eleanor,” he said quietly.
She looked up at once.
He stepped closer, his attention narrowing. He lifted a hand and brushed the back of his fingers lightly against her forehead.
“Your skin is warm,” he said.
She inhaled sharply.
He hesitated, then moved his hand down to her neck, his touch careful, searching for signs of fever.
“You are overheated,” he murmured.
