She did not look at him.
“You are everywhere,” he said, under his breath.
“Try not to sound so thrilled.”
The music began. They stepped forward—hands brushing, a flicker of heat—then turned away again. Rejoined. Glided apart.
It was a well-practiced dance. Predictable. Familiar.
Unlike him.
“You were not invited to this, were you?” she asked as they passed again.
“My aunt Lady Catherine is in town. She demanded my escort.”
“I hope she is pleased.”
“Shewas. Until now.” He tipped his head—barely—to the wall of dowagers. Two in particular sat like marble statues, expressions carved from disdain. One gave Elizabeth a look that could have peeled varnish.
Elizabeth smiled, sharp as broken glass. “Then I shall consider the evening a triumph.”
They met again in the center. Hands clasped.
Too long.
His palm was warm. His grip not quite severe enough to feel impersonal. Her pulse kicked anyway.
They parted. Turned.
“Still writing your observations?” he asked.
She raised a brow. “Still hoping for a cameo?”
“I was hoping for an absence.”
“I am told absences make the best stories.”
He muttered something uncharitable. She chose to misinterpret it.
“Your flattery is relentless,” she said sweetly. “Careful, or I shall think you intend to make a second bid.”
He looked at her then—fully, intently.
She regretted it instantly.
His eyes were dark, unreadable, and far too direct. For a moment, she felt pinned—not by ridicule, but by recognition.
She stepped too early. Recovered. He did not comment.
They turned again. Mirrors. Reverse. Hands touched and released.
Her cheeks were warm now—not from exertion.
From him.
From the press of his palm, firm and deliberate. From the way he looked at her only when he thought she was not watching. From the knowledge that everyone else in the room saw them as a pair now, if only for the length of a dance.
It was intolerable.
