“You are doing remarkably well,” Annabelle pressed a glass of lemonade into Elinor’s hand at Lord Haverford’s ball two evenings later.
The praise was meant for her performance, but Lucien, standing three paces behind, heard something else.
Elinor had been flawless. She smiled at the right moments, spoke to the right people, rested her hand on his arm with effortless ease. Each touch was measured, convincing. When she laughed, it was warm and unforced. When she turned to him, eyes bright behind her spectacles, the intimacy looked real.
It was real. That was what made it unbearable.
Earlier, as they descended the staircase, her fingers had tightened on his sleeve, sending heat up his arm. He had covered her hand, and she had not pulled away. For a few seconds, her palm rested beneath his, warm and steady, her pulse faint against his wrist.
He had counted those seconds.
Rebecca circled all evening, her courtesy edged sharp, her glances at Elinor assessing. Belinda loosed two barbed remarks that Annabelle neatly deflected. Gilbert cornered Annabelle about his new waistcoat until she escaped to the refreshments.
Dominic watched from the terrace, quiet and steady, as though he knew something was wrong but would not press. Once, Lucien met his gaze. The look he received was not prying, but patient:I am here when you are ready.
The Season was ending. The restlessness of it hung in the air, as though everyone felt something slipping beyond their grasp.
Now the candles burned low. The guests thinned. The orchestra struck up the final waltz, and Lucien turned to Elinor.
“One more,” he said. “One more dance. Before the night ends.”
She looked at his outstretched hand. He watched her measure the cost, each touch bringing them closer to the last.
She placed her hand in his.
He led her onto the floor. The remaining guests watched, but Lucien did not care. Let them see the Duke of Fairmont dance with the bespectacled wallflower one final time.
He placed his hand on her waist. She rested her fingers on his shoulder. The orchestra began, and they moved.
The first time they had danced, at the Hales’ ball, he had flirted with her. Teased her about raspberries, crowded her with innuendo, used the dance as a stage for the ruse. He had enjoyed it, the performance of wanting, without understanding that the wanting had already stopped being performance.
Now there was no performance. There was only the weight of her hand on his shoulder and the way her body moved against his, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through the silk of her gown. Her spectacles caught the candlelight. Her eyes, behind the glass, held his without flinching.
“You are staring at me,” she said.
“I am observing.”
The echo of their conversation at Lyra House, the night he gave her the atlas, hung between them. Elinor’s mouth curved, and the smile was real, and it devastated him.
“And what is the purpose of your observation?” she asked.
He pulled her closer. His hand slid from the proper position at her waist to the small of her back, and Elinor did not correct him. Her breath shortened. Her fingers curled against his shoulder, finding the fabric of his coat and gripping it.
“I am memorizing you,” he said.
Her step faltered. She recovered, but her hand tightened on his coat, and he felt the tremor move through her body and into his.
“Do not say things like that.” Her voice dropped. “Not here. Not when I cannot?—”
She stopped. Her jaw set. She blinked, and the tears she was holding back caught the light before she forced them down.
He drew her closer still. His thumb traced a slow circle against the small of her back, and her body arched toward his, a movement so slight that no one watching would have seen it, but Lucien felt it everywhere. The heat of her skin through the silk. The quickening of her breath against his collar. The way her fingers released his coat only to slide higher, finding the bare skin above his collar, and the contact sent a current through him that tightened every muscle in his chest.
“Lucien.” His name on her lips, breathless and broken.
His forehead touched her temple. Her scent filled his lungs, and he breathed it in and held it.
“Elinor.”
