Silence gathered between them. She could hear his breathing now, could feel the warmth of it against her cheek when he exhaled. The memory of his kiss beneath the trees rose with startling clarity — the careful pressure of his mouth, the gentleness that had undone her far more thoroughly than boldness ever could.
She wanted that gentleness again.
The realization was so sudden and so dangerous that she curled her fingers into her palms to steady herself.
From within, the bell sounded, summoning patrons back to their seats.
“Eleanor,” he said quietly, “this is not settled. Not between the two of you and certainly not between the two of us.”
Her pulse hammered. The narrow space felt smaller, the air warmer, the world beyond the curtain impossibly distant.
“You must go,” she whispered. “If we are discovered?—”
His hand brushed the curtain behind her, not touching her and yet near enough that she felt the warmth of him at her side. For one reckless instant she thought he might kiss her again — here, hidden between velvet and shadow. No, she admitted to herself. Shehopedhe would.
He did not.
“One more question,” he murmured. “Will you come to regret choosing certainty over possibility?”
She swallowed. “I do not have the luxury of indulging in possibilities.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, his gaze lingering with such intensity it was almost like a caress, before then returning to her eyes. “That has never stopped you from hoping. From dreaming. Beneath your practically minded exterior, inside you beats the heart of a romantic.”
The orchestra began to tune. Voices quieted. The moment contracted around them.
“Go, Adrian.”
He inclined his head and stepped back into shadow.
Eleanor drew a steadying breath and returned to the box, willing calm back into her limbs before she resumed her seat. Lord Marklynne glanced toward her with mild inquiry before returning his attention to the stage. Lady Lyndehurst resumed her whispered commentary, Miss Langford eager to agree, and the play began again.
Eleanor fixed her gaze upon the stage with an intensity that would have surprised anyone who knew how little she cared for the performance. She did not notice the faint tightening at the corner of Lord Marklynne’s mouth, nor the way his lips settled into a firm, disapproving line before his expression smoothed once more into polite composure.
Had she looked, she might have wondered what he had seen.
She did not look.
And so the play resumed, though Eleanor could not have be bothered later to recall a single word of it.
Chapter
Twelve
The terrace doors stood open to the night, admitting a welcome breath of cool air to relieve the press and heat of the ballroom within. Lantern light spilled across the stone balustrade, turning the gravel path below to pale silver and casting long shadows across the garden beyond. Music drifted through the open doors behind her, softened by distance until it seemed less a tune than a memory of one.
Eleanor rested her gloved hands upon the cool stone and drew in a steady breath. The air carried the faint sweetness of late roses and damp earth, a welcome reprieve after the crush of perfume and overheated bodies inside.
“I wondered where you had gone.”
She did not startle at the sound of Adrian’s voice. Somehow she had known he would follow.
“I required air,” she said.
“As do I, whenever society grows too fond of itself.”
She turned then, and the lantern light revealed him only an arm’s length away. The shadows softened the lines of his face, rendering him less the man the world saw and more the one she had known all her life.
He offered his arm. She did not take it. Instead, they began to walk slowly along the length of the terrace, their footsteps quiet against the stone.
