“Your Graces,” Lady Harrington exclaimed, her plump face alight with triumph at having secured such notable guests. “Howabsolutely delightful to have you both. We had no idea you had returned to London, Your Grace. Such a wonderful surprise.”
“The greatest surprise was awaiting me at home, Lady Harrington,” her cunning husband replied smoothly, his smile charming as he inclined his head toward Eleanor. “I couldn’t bear to be parted from my duchess a moment longer than necessary.”
Lady Harrington tittered with pleasure. “How romantic! You must tell me all about your travels in the East, Your Grace. Perhaps at my intimate dinner next Thursday? Both of you, of course.”
“I regret we are engaged elsewhere, Lady Harrington,” Eleanor replied before her pretend husband could extend their social obligations further. One night of performance was quite enough.
As they moved deeper into the ballroom, Eleanor became aware of a peculiar intensity to one particular gaze among the many directed their way. She glanced discreetly toward the source—a woman standing near one of the ornate columns, her face pale with shock, her eyes fixed on the duke with such naked longing and fear that Eleanor felt as though she had intruded upon something deeply private.
The woman was pretty, with an innocent look about her—tall and willowy with rich auburn hair arranged in an elaborate style that emphasized her graceful neck. Her gown of pale green silk complemented her fair complexion perfectly.
Eleanor felt him tense almost imperceptibly beside her, though his expression remained pleasantly neutral. He had seen the woman too, she was certain of it, yet he made no acknowledgment of her presence.
“An acquaintance of yours?” Eleanor murmured, nodding subtly in the woman’s direction.
His smile didn’t waver. “Someone from my past,” he replied, his tone giving nothing away as he guided Eleanor toward a group of approaching well-wishers.
For the next half hour, they moved through the crowd as a united front, accepting congratulations and fielding questions about their “courtship” with ease. Yet Eleanor remained aware of the auburn-haired woman, who consistently positioned herself to keep Damien in her sightline, her expression a complex mixture of longing and distress.
As they paused near a column to accept a glass of champagne from a passing footman, Eleanor’s attention was caught by a curious tableau unfolding across the ballroom. Lady Adelaide Winters, resplendent in a gown of deep burgundy that complemented her red hair, stood conversing with the Countess of Eastmere, her fan moving in seemingly casual gestures. Some twenty feet away, Lord Cedric Castleton leaned against the opposite wall, appearing thoroughly engrossed in conversation with Lord Harrington, yet Eleanor noticed Lord Cedric’s eyes occasionally flickering toward Lady Adelaide.
Though they gave every appearance of being indifferent toward each other, Eleanor observed a subtle synchronicity to their movements. When Lady Adelaide shifted her position slightly to the left, Lord Cedric casually strolled a few paces to his right, maintaining what seemed to be a carefully calculated distance. When she touched her right earring while laughing at something the countess said, Lord Cedric checked his pocket watch with his left hand.
“What has captured your attention so thoroughly, my darling wife?” her so-called husband asked, following her gaze across the room.
Before Eleanor could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew everyone’s attention as the Countess of Caldwell made a dramatic entrance with her three daughters in tow.By the time Eleanor looked back, the curious dance between Lady Adelaide and Lord Cedric had dissolved—Lady Adelaide now chatting animatedly with both the countess and a nervous gentleman, while Lord Cedric had vanished entirely from view.
“Nothing of consequence,” Eleanor replied, returning her attention to the duke. “Merely observing the usual Society maneuvers.”
When they had a moment relatively alone near the refreshment table, Eleanor asked quietly, “The woman in green—she seems quite affected by your presence. A former love, perhaps?”
His gaze met hers, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before he masked it. “Yes,” he admitted after a brief hesitation. “But we ended our acquaintance before I departed for the East.”
A pang of jealousy twisted in Eleanor’s chest. She told herself it was merely curiosity, not any personal investment in her temporary husband’s romantic history. “She appears to be taking your marriage rather poorly. She looks positively heartbroken.”
His expression hardened slightly. “You’re mistaken. She’s the one who ended our association.”
“Indeed?” The revelation bothered Eleanor more than she cared to admit. This elegant woman had possessed her husband’s heart and discarded it. The notion that someone had wounded the seemingly unflappable duke, had rejected the man who commanded every room he entered, felt strangely offensive.
“The orchestra is beginning a waltz,” the duke observed, clearly wishing to change the subject. “Would my duchess honor me with a dance?”
Eleanor allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor, keenly aware of his hand at her waist, the careful distance between their bodies as they began to move with the music. His Grace was an excellent dancer, guiding her with confidence through the turnsand sweeps of the waltz. Yet she could not help but notice his gaze occasionally drifting over her shoulder, scanning the room with the subtle alertness of a man searching for something—or someone.
Her stomach sank. Was he looking for his former love? Had their parting been less final than he claimed?
“You seem distracted, Your Grace,” she remarked, striving for a light tone.
His attention snapped back to her face. “Forgive me. I’m simply reacquainting myself with Society after my absence.”
“And finding it changed, perhaps?”
“Some things change,” he conceded, his hand tightening slightly at her waist as he guided her through a particularly challenging turn. “Others remain precisely as one remembers them.”
The intensity of his gaze as he said this made her feel uneasy. For a moment, the crowded ballroom seemed to recede, leaving only the two of them captured in the swell of music, the warmth of his hand against her back, the subtle scent of his cologne.
Then the music ended, breaking the spell. As they separated, a tall gentleman approached, his elegant attire and confident bearing marking him as a man of consequence.
“Lady Sinclair,” he said with a slight bow, using her former title. “How delightful to see you emerging from your seclusion. Might I claim the next dance?”