The evening wore on, and the ballroom swelled with voices, laughter, and the rustle of gowns across the floor. Eleanor, despite her natural reserve, found herself encircled by eager companions. One wished to speak of poetry, another of family estates, still another of horses and hunts. Their attentions pressed so closely upon her that she felt as though she stood at the center of a net, each thread pulling at her from a different direction.
Her parents had long called her the perfect daughter — obedient, graceful, a vision of promise. Suitors admired her beauty, poets praised her talent, and mothers whispered to their sons that Eleanor was everything a wife ought to be. And tonight, every murmur seemed to prove it true.
Yet her eyes strayed.
Across the room stood Lord Theodore, composed and still as ever. A few young women lingered near him, but none dared approach. His silence was formidable, his gaze too steady, his manner too guarded. They whispered to one another, tittered behind fans, but when faced with the coolness of his composure, they faltered and drifted instead toward William.
William, ever the charmer, accepted their company with ease. He laughed, he teased, he bent close enough to draw blushes from their cheeks. To the young ladies of the room, he was approachable, playful, a safe harbor compared to his elder brother's impenetrable reserve.
But Theodore's eyes — for all his distance — lingered elsewhere. Again and again, they returned to Eleanor.
At last, as the musicians struck up the strains of a slower measure, the moment arrived. The floor cleared for the next dance, and the chatter around Eleanor dimmed as one by one her companions stepped back, each hoping to be the one she favored.
Then Theodore moved.
He crossed the floor with deliberate steps, every gaze in the room following him. He bowed, low and formal, before Eleanor.
"Miss Eleanor," he said, his voice steady yet carrying a weight that silenced the air around them. "May I have this dance?"
The murmurs that followed were sharp with surprise. William's smile faltered, a flicker of something unreadable passing his face. The other suitors stiffened, exchanging looks of quiet frustration.
Eleanor curtsied, her pulse quickening. "You may, my lord."
Theodore's hand found hers — firm, steady, unyielding — and together they stepped into the measure.
It was a dance unlike any she had shared before. With William, laughter had guided her steps. With her other suitors, conversation had filled the silences. But with Theodore, words seemed unnecessary. His touch was careful yet commanding, his gaze unwavering though never reckless. He did not flatter her with practiced lines, nor charm her with jest — instead, he offered something far more dangerous: honesty in silence.
Around them, the ballroom faded. The music swelled, but Eleanor heard only the rhythm of her own heart. Theodore's closeness unsettled her, not because of impropriety, but because she sensed what he dared not say. Beneath the stillness of his gaze lay secrets untold, and in every turn, every step, she felt the truth pressing closer.
He had loved her all his life.
But love, for Theodore, was dangerous.
And in that single dance, Eleanor understood it.