And still, as Arthur watched her smile at a joke he doubted she found amusing, a slow pressure gathered beneath his ribs. It was not dislike. That would have been easier. Eleanor had done nothing wrong.
She was kind in the formal way women of her station were taught to be kind, and she would probably become an excellent hostess, an obedient wife, and a duchess no one could criticize. Yet, the thought of sitting across from her for breakfast year after year while both of them performed a marriage instead of living one made Arthur's chest tighten until the room seemed short of air. Lord Danvers approached him with the pleased caution of a man who could already see an alliance forming. "Westley," he said, his voice low and satisfied.
"I hope you find the evening agreeable." "Very agreeable," Arthur replied, because that was the answer required. "Eleanor has been looking forward to your visit." "So I understand."
"She is fond of Westley Abbey, though she has only seen it once." "Your late mother spoke highly of her, I believe." Arthur inclined his head. "My mother spoke highly of many young ladies who sat straight and knew how to leave a room."
Lord Danvers laughed, not because the remark was very funny, but because a duke had made it. Arthur smiled in return, and the exchange passed for ease. The music changed. A waltz began, bright and polished, and Eleanor's eyes moved across the room to find him.
It was not an invitation, exactly. It was a reminder. The whole room turned with that reminder, gently but firmly, as if the entire house had become a hand at his back. Arthur felt the old training rise in him.
Step forward. Ask. Dance. Confirm what everyone already knows.
Do not make the household wonder. Do not embarrass the daughter. Do not disturb the order of things. Instead, he set his untouched glass on a passing tray.
"Excuse me," he said. Lord Danvers blinked. "Of course." Arthur crossed the edge of the ballroom without hurrying, because a duke did not flee.
He moved through a pair of French doors half hidden behind velvet drapery and entered a glass-roofed conservatory, where the noise of the party softened at once. The air was cooler there, damp with the scent of earth and citrus leaves. Rain tapped softly overhead, turning the panes above him into dark silver. For the first time that evening, he breathed without effort.
He walked deeper into the conservatory, past potted orange trees and climbing vines trained along iron frames. The place was not entirely dark. A few lamps burned low near the far wall, enough to show the shapes of leaves, the gleam of wet glass, and the pale stone path beneath his shoes. He thought he was alone until a voice spoke from the shadows.