Perhaps it was cruel.
Perhaps unfair.
But the instinct came from somewhere old and frightened.
She needed to know where the line truly stood.
Henry had always spoken beautifully before crossing lines.
Caleb spoke awkwardly.
That meant nothing yet.
She stepped closer until less than a foot separated them.
His breathing changed.
Barely.
Eleanor noticed.
She reached up.
Put her palm against the center of his chest.
Caleb froze.
His shirt was warm.
Beneath it, his heartbeat struck hard.
Faster than she expected.
She almost removed her hand.
Instead, she left it there.
Caleb’s eyes lowered toward her fingers.
Then returned to her face.
“Eleanor.”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Finding out whether you're telling the truth.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
His brow furrowed.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Only if you are lying.”
She slid her palm slightly higher.
Not intimate.
Just enough to feel the rough fabric and the solid shape beneath it.
Caleb’s fingers curled at his sides.
He still did not touch her.
Eleanor whispered:
“You could.”
His voice came rougher.
“Could what?”
“Touch me.”
He swallowed.
“Where?”
The question nearly undid her.
Not because it was seductive.
Because it was careful.
She took his right hand.
Caleb let her.
His palm was twice the size of hers.
She guided it toward her waist.
For one second he resisted.
Then allowed his hand to settle over the fabric at her side.
His thumb remained absolutely still.
Eleanor watched his face.
No triumph.
No hunger turned possessive.
If anything, he looked frightened.
She moved slightly closer.
“Is this terrible?”
Caleb’s eyes closed.
“Eleanor.”
“Yes?”
“You should not ask questions when you're standing like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I may answer honestly.”
“That is precisely what I want.”
His eyes opened.
She had never seen a man look at her that way.
Henry had looked at her with ownership.
With entitlement.
Sometimes admiration.
But always as though what he saw belonged to him.
Caleb looked like a starving man standing before a table he refused to touch.
The difference shook her.
She whispered:
“Do you think I’m undesirable?”
His eyebrows rose.
“What?”
“You keep avoiding the bed.”
“That has nothing to do with—”
“You barely looked at me when I changed.”
“Because I was trying to behave.”
“According to whom?”
“Myself.”
Eleanor almost smiled.
“Caleb.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
“I am.”
“No.”
She stepped back half a pace.
Enough that he could see her fully.
Her blue nightgown.
Her bare shoulders.
Her hair loose around her face.
Everything she had spent years evaluating according to what Henry praised or criticized.
“Look.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
But he obeyed.
His gaze moved carefully.
Not hurried.
Not crude.
From her face.
Down.
Then back.
His throat moved.
Eleanor felt a strange mix of embarrassment and power.
Not power over him.