She Isn't What's Left

Across the drawing room, Eleanor watched the two men talking in low, measured tones by the window.

Lady Cecilia, quietly drawing her needle through the stretched linen on her lap, spoke without lifting her eyes. "Leave them be, darling. Your father is merely satisfying his conscience."

Eleanor sat down on the settee beside her mother, smoothing her skirts. "I am not hovering."

"You are watching his profile with unmasked intensity," Cecilia smiled. "You are remarkably fond of him, aren't you?"

Eleanor let out a soft breath. "We have established that I hold him in high regard, Mother."

"No," Cecilia said, setting her embroidery down on her knees. "We established last month that you found him intellectually fascinating. Your demeanor tonight is entirely different."

Eleanor looked toward Ernest. He was standing tall and composed beside her father, listening with deep, respectful attention.