“No, Eleanor.” The words leapt from his mouth before he realized he’d formed a conscious thought. Maybe the Sutherlands would welcome Amelia. Maybe they would stand by her and ease her way into society. He could believe it of them. They were kind, decent. Like Eleanor, they were not what he’d expected.
But it didn’t matter. She’d said it wasn’t too late, but it was.
For him, it was.
Did she believe she could give him everything, shatter so sweetly in his arms, and he’d let her walk away from him? Even now she might carry his child in her belly. Did she think he’d allow his own child to suffer Amelia’s fate? Did she think he’d let history repeat itself?
He took her hand between both of his, his grip fierce. “No.”
Fall at her feet, take her hands, beg her . . .
She didn’t argue with him. She didn’t even try to withdraw her hand, but it rested like a dead thing between his, cold and lifeless. She wasn’t fighting him anymore. The thought should have given him hope, but it didn’t.
He released her hand, and it dropped to her side. “You believe Amelia shouldn’t be punished for an accident of birth. She bears no fault in it, so she shouldn’t suffer for it. Is that right, Cam?”
Had the room grown cold? He felt chilled to his very soul. “Yes.”
“But you think it fitting I should?”
He opened numb lips to answer her, but there was no answer to that, and his throat closed before he could utter a word.
She didn’t seem to expect an answer. She went to the door, opened it, and stood there, head bowed, waiting.
Take her in your arms. Beg her pardon, and tell her,tell her . . .
But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, because there was nothing he could say she would believe. For a long moment he gazed at her, his heart cold and hollow in his chest. Then he walked across the room and out the door.
Eleanor closed it behind him, and she didn’t move for a long time afterwards. When she began to shiver from the cold she changed into her dressing gown and wrapper and sat on the edge of the settee, careful not to think of anything.
The fire died away sometime during the night, but she didn’t go to her bed. She couldn’t, not after she’d been there with Cam.
She folded her hands mechanically in her lap and sat, back straight, and didn’t think of anything. She didn’t make plans. She didn’t try to find a way out—a way to jerk the strings into place. She sat and let emotions wash over her. Memories. Her father, with his cold, dark eyes. Charlotte, as she’d been as a child, with her muddy pinafores and wild black curls. Amelia, asking if Eleanor would always be her friend. Cam, speaking to her of obligations.
And at last, just Cam. She squeezed her eyes shut, but she could see him still, his green eyes tender as he made love to her, his hands cupping her face, his voice, whispering she was beautiful.
She was still there when Charlotte found her, hours later. “Eleanor? What are you—dear God, you’re like ice. What’s happened?”
Eleanor turned to Charlotte, surprised to see her there. “Happened? Oh.” She pulled her wrapper tighter around her throat. “I’m going to marry Camden West.”
Chapter Twenty-five
She could almost believe nothing had changed.
Eleanor stood to one side of the ballroom, her gloved fingers wrapped around a glass of lemonade, a stiff smile pasted on her face as she watched the dancers whirl from one side of the floor to the other.
It looked the same. The same colorful silk gowns and blinding white cravats. The same throats and wrists adorned with the same flashing jewels. The same gilt mirrors reflecting the same couples, shuffling through the same figures of the same dances.
It might have been any ball, at any time, in any townhouse in London. It might have been Lady Foster’s ball, six weeks ago.
Except it wasn’t.
The smooth, glittering surface appeared undisturbed, but underneath it the currents ebbed and flowed, surged and retreated. Eleanor struggled to remain upright as the sand shifted beneath her feet. Her jaw ached, and her palms were damp inside her tight gloves.
Charlotte was dancing with the Marquess of Hadley again. There was nothing so unusual in that, perhaps. Hadley had never made a secret of his admiration for Charlotte, and he often asked her to dance. Charlotte, ever gracious, often accepted him, but while she clearly liked the Marquess, she’d never shown any marked partiality for him.
Until now. Since their return from Lindenhurst four weeks ago, Hadley’s suit had met with an unusual degree of success. He gazed down at Charlotte tonight, besotted as ever, his handsome face alight as if he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, with any other lady in his arms. Whether Charlotte had accepted his suit or not, Eleanor hadn’t the faintest idea. Charlotte hadn’t confided in her.
Charlotte hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to her since their return.
