“Did you dance every dance with her?”
“We danced three times.”
“Does she dance well? She must.”
“Yes. So graceful. I’ve never seen another lady to equal her.” Such exquisite agony, to hold Eleanor in his arms with all the empty, silent space between them.
Amelia gave another girlish sigh. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to go to balls and dance with all the handsome gentlemen. You were the handsomest gentleman in the room, weren’t you?”
There was only one acceptable answer to this question as far as Amelia was concerned, so Cam gave it. “Yes, of course. The tallest, too.”
He waited while she mulled this over. She’d ask about gowns, then about the music and the supper—
“When will you and Ellie get married?”
Cam’s heart lurched at the unexpected question. He hadn’t yet told Amelia about the betrothal. He’d meant to, ever since the last evening at Lindenhurst when Eleanor accepted his suit, but now it was weeks later, and he still hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t had the first of the banns called yet, either.
He was waiting for something. Hoping for it. Yearning for it, but as each day slipped into night it drifted further and further away, and trying to hold onto it was like clutching at the sun to keep it from sinking below the horizon.
That night at Lindenhurst, the night they’d made love, Eleanor had given him everything. She’d placed her body and her pleasure in his hands, yes, but she’d given him her trust, too. He’d felt it in every sigh, every gasp, every kiss, and it had devastated him. Humbled him. It was the sweetest pleasure he’d ever known.
Then, in the next breath, it was gone. She’d taken it back again. She’d given him that precious gift, then she’d taken it away, and left him broken from its loss.
So he waited. He counted each breath, each beat of his battered heart, and waited for her to give it back again. He held off on calling the banns, held off on telling Amelia, because he kept hoping . . .
But every day the sun set, despite his best efforts to stop it, and it had yet to rise again.
“Denny?” Amelia watched him, puzzled. “When do you think you and Ellie will marry?”
“I—why do you think we intend to marry at all?” His voice wasn’t quite steady.
“Because Lady Charlotte told me you would, in the carriage on the way back to London from Lindenhurst.” She gave him a strange look. “Why wouldn’t you marry? You love Ellie, don’t you?”
He thought of her, of how she’d looked tonight, her jewels sparkling in her dark hair, so beautiful she made his heart ache. But her beauty, her name, her father’s name—it wasn’t enough. It all meant nothing if she lost that spark, that flash in her eyes that made her who she was.
He wantedher. All of her. Anything less was unbearable. “Yes. I love her. My best hope for you is someday you’ll find someone you love as much as I love her.”
Someone who lovesyou in return.
Amelia smiled then, as if she’d heard his thoughts. “She loves you, too, Denny. She must, otherwise she’d never have agreed to marry you.”
Cam shook his head. “People marry without love all the time, Amelia.”
“Not Eleanor. She never would, no matter what. She told me so.”
Cam stilled. “She told you . . . what, exactly?”
“She told me ladies marry for all kinds of different reasons, but she never would. She said she wouldn’t marry for any reason other than love.”
Cam stared at her, his breath frozen in his lungs.Love. He almost laughed; it was so simple.
Three seasons. Six suitors. Six offers. Fine gentlemen, some of them. Advantageous offers. Any other lady would have accepted, any other lady would have been thrilled . . .
Any other lady, but not Ellie.
Six refusals.
She’d never told him why, and he, in his arrogance, imagined he already knew her reasons. Vanity, at first, and then later, after he knew her better. . . a wish for freedom? Yes, that was part of it. She’d told him that much, but it wasn’t her only reason.
