Chapter Seventeen
James was bored. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the women he was dancing with, they all seemed pleasant enough, and no one was staring at him with a wrinkled nose and a healthy dose of disgust, as though they could see the dirt of his origins all over him.
But he wasn’t trying to pursue these women. The time he spent conversing and dancing and leading them back to their chaperones felt like wasted time.
He kept an eye on the men Lady Sarah was dancing with, to determine if they might be competition. Then he kept trying to catch Eleanor’s eye, but she was staring at her fan like it might contain some sort of hidden message. He grew more annoyed as the night went on.
Yes, they’d kissed. Yes, it was a mistake. Clearly. But it didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy each other’s company.
In public. Maybe not alone.
He didn’t know if being alone with her was a good idea. His gaze kept straying to her mouth, which was a perfectly normal mouth, lips a little on the thin side, maybe—better to purse at him in disapproval. He kept remembering how cool they’d been from the night air, until he’d warmed them with his own.
He led his current dance partner back to her chaperone, and then went to the refreshment table to ladle some punch for her, when a man moved in beside him, blocking the punch bowl.
James was about to brush past him with a polite remark when he stopped, and actually looked at his face.
And looked into the cold blue eyes of the Duke of Sheffield.
If he’d been holding something, he might have dropped it. Thank God he wasn’t holding something. This man was like a viper—he would strike at any weakness.
“James MacGregor,” he said. “This is a surprise.”
James’s throat tightened. He’d thought Sheffield was in London. Why wasn’t the bastard in London?
“Your Grace.”
The older man lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t sound like you just rolled down from the Highlands anymore.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
“Trying to disguise what you are? Do they know you make a living with your fists?”
“They know I own a boxing saloon.”
“How quaint. Why are you here, MacGregor?”
“The Townsends invited me. We’re acquaintances.”
“The Townsends. Upstarts always find each other, I suppose.”
James felt a hot anger in his chest. “Why are you here if you don’t like them?”
“I thought I’d make an appearance. They might be upstarts, but they’re upstarts who own a great deal of land. The earl isn’t here, though, so there wasn’t much point. A pity.” He surveyed James. “Of course, I’ve found something just as interesting—a mutt in disguise.”
James’s anger morphed to something else, something dark and tinged with shame.
The duke lowered his voice, “If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it, and you’ll be a laughing—”
“I’m not going to say anything,” he cut in abruptly. There was no point. He moved away from the table, away from the Duke of Sheffield. His hands were shaking. He curled them into fists.
This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.
He wasn’t supposed to meet the duke now, but after. After he’d married Lady Sarah. After he’d become wealthy enough. After he was one of them, when it would be too late, too late for the duke to knock him back down to the dirt.
He moved toward the door. It was too hot in here, too full, different perfumes mingling too closely. He needed air.
He needed to be able to breathe.
…
Eleanor knew something was wrong. She’d been watching James, as surreptitiously as she could, as he walked to the refreshment table. So she saw him stiffen. Saw his face go pale as he looked at the man next to him.
The Duke of Sheffield.
Eleanor had invited him because propriety demanded it, but she’d assumed he wouldn’t attend. Unfortunately, there he was. But what bothered her the most was James’s visceral reaction to the man. Yes, he was arrogant and condescending, even for a duke, which was saying something, but they shouldn’t even know each other. So she had no idea why James would stride out of the ballroom like he was escaping a nightmare.
After a moment of indecision, a moment in which she checked that Robert was occupied, and that no one else was watching her, she slipped out after him.
She found him in the library, lit by a single, lonely candle that flickered and wavered under the breeze that came in through the open window. He was staring out, heedless of the cold, heedless of the rain. The faint sounds of music and chatter drifted down from the drawing room.
He didn’t move when she shut the door softly behind her, just turned his head. He didn’t seem surprised to see her.
“You shouldn’t be here.” But his accent, the one he worked so hard to hide, came through, and shouldn’t sounded more like shouldna.
That, more than anything, sent a sliver of worry through her chest.
“What happened? What did the duke say to you?”
“Not much. He called me a mutt in disguise.”
Eleanor frowned. His voice was wiped clean of emotion. “Why would he call you that?”
James lifted a shoulder and turned his head to stare back out the window. “He called your family upstarts. Not a very polite guest, is he?”
She stepped closer. “Are you all right?”
His hands were on the sill, gripping tight, white from either cold or pressure, or both. “I’m perfectly well. He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
She was close enough to touch him, so she did. She pressed her hand, gently, to his back, and his head bowed. “I don’t think it’s true. And I don’t think he has a right to insult my guests, anyway.”
He was silent.
She ran her tongue along the back of her teeth before she asked the only question she could ask. But she already suspected the answer. There had been something similar about the two men, not in their looks, but in the way they stood. “Who is he to you?” After a pause, she said, “You know my biggest secret. It’s only fair that I know yours.”
James sighed. “He’s my father.”