Chapter Sixteen
They prepared for a ball. Robert grumbled and Georgina threw herself into the task with her usual enthusiasm. Eleanor approached the event with the air of a man walking to the gallows—it was too late to stop, too late to dig herself out, she’d just have to march to the bitter end.
They invited some of the most sought-after Edinburgh families—the ones who, like Lady Sarah’s family, stayed for the Season instead of spending most of their time in London out of loyalty to their city, and the ones who were wellborn and well-off, but didn’t have quite the amount of riches needed for a London Season.
While Eleanor took on the mind-numbing task of invitation writing, she thought of James MacGregor as a boy, alone except for his mother, poor enough and desperate enough to become a body snatcher, even though the memory was clearly distasteful to him. She couldn’t imagine him as that boy, small and scared, who didn’t yet know how to use his fists to defend himself. She couldn’t imagine him scared. Couldn’t imagine him vulnerable, at all.
But maybe that was the point, of everything he’d become. Was trying to become.
She didn’t know why she wasted so much time thinking about him. She doubted he was thinking about her. No, he was probably daydreaming about Lady Sarah, and the generations her father’s earldom spanned, and her height-of-fashion clothes, and her elegance, and her many connections.
Ah, and there was the bitterness.
Lady Sarah didn’t deserve her bitterness. James didn’t even really deserve it. It wasn’t as though he’d concealed his intentions.
So she stuffed the bitterness down, and continued with the invitations.
Sometimes that was all one could do in the face of bitter things—just continue.
…
The night of the ball was a damp one. Cold rain pattered against the windows, streaming down like tears. Inside, a fire roared and chandeliers lit the large drawing room. Eleanor greeted Lady Sarah politely and they ended up speaking near the mantel.
After a few pleasantries, the woman asked, with studied casualness, “Will Mr. MacGregor be attending?”
Eleanor felt her stomach lurch. “Yes.”
“I found him quite amiable.”
“Yes,” she repeated, “he is certainly…amiable.” Amiable would not be anywhere on Eleanor’s list of words to describe James MacGregor. The only A word would probably be annoying, or maybe, an ass. Though, that was technically two words.
Lady Sarah’s gaze drifted to the door, and Eleanor followed it. Her stomach lurched again when she saw James MacGregor, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders.
He was dressed in black and white and gold. A snowy cravat tucked expertly into a gold waistcoat. His black coat fit him to perfection, hugging the toned contours of his arms. He should have looked ridiculous in such extravagant clothes, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Instead, he just looked like a more powerful wolf.
Every time he moved, his coat moved with him, a second skin. It was impossible not to admire the elegant and strong lines of his form. Eleanor hadn’t known that elegance and strength could be married so completely. She’d never seen it in another man. Not to this extent.
He spotted them, loping through the crowd easily, like the wolf she’d just compared him to.
He greeted Eleanor first, warmly, and then Lady Sarah, even more warmly.
Eleanor looked at the side of his face, trying not to stare at his lips. Lord, his mouth had been hot against hers. Was he remembering it? Was he thinking about it? Was she the only one?
She folded her hands and tried to appear unconcerned when James led Lady Sarah away for a dance. She moved to one of the chairs lining the walls, which was her usual place. She wasn’t Lady Sarah. She didn’t have admirers.
I am not Lady Sarah, she repeated to herself, as James said something that made the other woman smile. As they circled each other. As James grasped her hand. As he stared at her like she might be the holy grail, uncovered in an Edinburgh drawing room.
I am not Lady Sarah.
They danced twice. Eleanor became intimately acquainted with the embroidery on her fan during the second dance. It was all too much to watch again. She didn’t need this pang in her chest to turn into a fissure.
She didn’t look up when a shadow fell over her, not until the shadow said, “What are you doing?” with a hint of annoyance.
She looked up at James, whose forehead was wrinkled as he stared down at her. She frowned right back at him. “Use your powers of observation.”
“Why aren’t you dancing?”
“I don’t enjoy dancing very much.”
He lowered himself into the chair next to her—Eleanor noted he didn’t fling himself and nearly break the chair legs, not here. Some of the matrons and other wallflowers glanced at him curiously.
“Why?”
“I suppose I’m not asked very much, so I’ve never felt quite comfortable dancing in front of a crowd.”
“Do you want to be asked?”
She didn’t know the answer. Yes and no, she supposed. She wouldn’t mind feeling like being a part of the ball instead of observing from the edges, but at the same time, dancing wasn’t really something she had much fondness for anyway.
What she wanted…what did she want? Maybe just people who wouldn’t stare at her like some strange creature if she mentioned stag beetles. Maybe it was as simple as that.
“I don’t know that I have a preference, either way,” she said honestly.
Part of her was alarmed that they could talk like this after what had occurred between them. She felt like a more proper woman would be too embarrassed to speak. She knew a more proper woman certainly wouldn’t keep reliving the moment in her mind.
She wondered if James had kissed so many women that it didn’t even register—the fact that their mouths had eagerly tried to devour each other.
She cleared her throat, tried to ignore the heaviness that sat like a stone in her chest. “Did you return Lady Sarah to her mother?”
“Just as you told me. I’m not a hopeless student.”
“Only hopeless in general.”
He grinned. “Your sharp tongue is in fine form tonight.”
She ignored him.
“How was my dancing?” he asked casually. Casually enough that she knew her opinion was important to him. She didn’t know why. Lady Sarah’s opinion was really the only one that mattered, in this case.
“It was—” Perfect. She had a feeling he could accomplish anything he set his mind to. “—well done.”
His mouth twitched. “Damned with faint praise.”
“No…that was a compliment. It was quite well done. And don’t say damned near the matrons. They’re strict about that sort of thing,” she said quietly.
He leaned forward and said, just as quietly, “You just did.”
They’d been this close right before they’d kissed. Or right before she kissed him. She sat back abruptly, pulse racing.
“Have you tried the punch?” she said, for lack of anything better to say.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Is it Smith’s?”
Her nose wrinkled. “I’m not trying to poison my guests.”
He laughed. A little too loudly. A nearby matron frowned at him.
“You should dance with more people than Lady Sarah. It will look rude if you don’t.”
“Will you dance with me?”
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then shook her head. It would be a bad idea. She needed to start disentangling herself from him at some point. The sooner, the better.
He cocked his head. “You paused.”
“What?”
“You paused before you said no. I think that means you secretly want to.”
Damn him. He was too observant. “There are plenty of other women sitting along the wall who actually wish to dance. You should ask them.”
He nodded, and she felt relief breathe through her. “I will.” He stood. “And then, I’m coming back for you.”
Her heart jolted, startled, taken unaware by a statement that could be interpreted in so many foolish ways, but before she could argue with him, he was gone.