He looked up at once, as though he had sensed her presence.
“Eleanor.”
She descended the remaining steps, her skirts gathered lightly in one hand. “You are leaving again.”
“Yes.”
The word sat between them, plain and unadorned.
She felt the question rise, unbidden, sharp at the back of her throat.
Where are you going?
The impulse was so strong it startled her. She had not expected to want to know. Want implied entitlement, and she had never been permitted such a thing.
James’s gaze held hers. He did not look impatient. If anything, there was something wary in his expression, as though he, too, were braced for what might follow.
She saw then that he expected her to ask.
The realization was almost dizzying.
Her fingers tightened around her reticule.
“I hope your ride is not unpleasant,” she said instead.
Something flickered across his face. Surprise that was quickly masked.
“I do not expect it to be.”
She nodded once. “Then I shall see you later.”
“Yes.”
For a fraction of a moment, neither of them moved.
Then James turned, swung easily into the saddle, and rode off without another word.
Eleanor remained where she was, watching until the bend in the drive swallowed him whole.
Only then did she exhale.
She told herself she had done the sensible thing.
That evening, James did not return for dinner.
She ate alone again, the candles burning lower than usual, the room too large for one person.
When he finally returned, it was past midnight. Eleanor had been sitting in the small drawing room, pretending to read while listening for footsteps she would never admit she was waiting for.
The door opened.
He stopped when he saw her.
“You are awake.”
“So are you.”
He gave a short huff of something that might have been amusement. “Apparently.”
