There was steel beneath his mild manner, she realized. A quiet defiance that called to her own stubborn pride. To refuse would be to admit defeat, to acknowledge that their whispers had power over her.
"Very well," she said, placing her gloved hand in his. "Though I warn you, my dancing may have suffered from recent lack of practice."
"Then we shall muddle through together. I've been told my waltz resembles nothing so much as a bear attempting to ice skate, so we should make an excellently matched disaster."
Despite everything, Eveline found herself almost smiling as he led her onto the floor. The crowd parted before them with obvious reluctance, clearly torn between avoiding contamination and securing the best view of impending catastrophe.
The orchestra struck up a waltz, of course it would be a waltz, that most intimate of dances, and Theodore's hand settled on her waist with perfect propriety. He was, she discovered, a far better dancer than his self-deprecation suggested, guiding her through the opening measures with steady competence.
"Ignore them," he murmured as they turned, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "Focus on the music, on the steps. They're nothing more than noise."
But it was impossible to ignore the weight of so many watching eyes, the whispers that followed their progress around the floor like a malicious Greek chorus. She could feel the judgment pressing against her skin, could practically hear the gossip that would spread from this moment: how the ruined Miss Whitcombe had entrapped another gentleman, how shameless she was to dance while her reputation lay in tatters.
"You're thinking too much," Theodore observed. "I can practically hear the gears turning in that remarkable brain of yours."
"Aren't you concerned about your own reputation? Dancing with me is hardly conducive to social advancement."
"My reputation has survived far worse than association with a brilliantwoman whose only crime was accepting shelter during a storm." His hand tightened slightly on hers, a gesture of support that was somehow more comforting than any flowery speech. "Besides, social advancement has never been among my ambitions. I leave that to those with weaker minds and stronger stomachs for hypocrisy."
They completed another turn, and Eveline caught sight of their reflection in one of the ballroom's mirrors. They looked well together, she had to admit. He...with his scholarly bearing and steady presence, she... in her rose silk that brought out the color the exercise had brought to her cheeks. Like characters from a novel about sensible attachments and rational choices.
The thought made something twist in her chest.
The music swelled toward its conclusion, and Theodore guided her through the final turns with the same calm competence he'd shown throughout. As they came to a stop and the room erupted in polite applause for the orchestra, he didn't immediately release her.
"Miss Whitcombe," he said, his voice carrying an urgency that hadn't been there before. "Might I speak with you a moment? Privately?"
She wanted to refuse. Every instinct screamed that this was the wrong time, the wrong place, that anything he had to say would be better discussed away from so many prying eyes. But his expression held such earnest appeal that she found herself nodding.
He led her to a relatively quiet corner near the French doors that opened onto the terrace and that were private enough for conversation but public enough to avoid adding to her scandal. It was a thoughtful choice, typical of his careful consideration.
"I apologise for pressing this upon you here," he began without preamble. "I had intended to await your response to my letter with proper patience. But seeing you tonight, seeing how they treat you..." His jaw tightened. "It clarifies things remarkably."
"Mr. Browne..."
"Please, allow me to finish." He removed his spectacles, cleaning them with quick, nervous movements. "I've spent the past days thinking of little else but our conversation. I've drafted a dozen letters trying to better express what I offer, what we might build together. But watching you face down their cruelty with such dignity, such fierce pride, only confirms what I already knew."
"Which is?"
"That you're wasted on them. On this." He gestured broadly at the ballroom with its glittering crowds and poisonous whispers. "You deserve a life where your mind is valued above your ability to pour tea or simper appropriately. Where your scholarship is cause for celebration, not censure."
"You're very kind."
"I'm not kind. I'm selfish." The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. "I want you for myself. Your brilliant mind, your caustic wit, your refusal to diminish yourself for anyone's comfort. I want to wake each morning knowingI'll spend my days with someone who can challenge me, who can bring fresh perspective to my work, who can make me laugh over breakfast with observations about Byzantine poetry."
It was, Eveline realized with a pang, the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her. Not flowery declarations of passion, but this honest admission of intellectual and personal compatibility. Any sensible woman would be moved to accept immediately.
Which perhaps explained why her throat felt tight with unshed tears.
"Theodore," she said gently, using his Christian name for the first time. "You honour me more than I can express. Your regard, your offer—they mean more than you know. But..."
"Don't." His voice turned urgent. "Don't refuse out of some misguided sense of unworthiness. You're not damaged goods, despite what these fools whisper. You're not lesser for having weathered a scandal. If anything, you're stronger, more yourself than before."
"That's not why I'm refusing."
The words fell between them with quiet finality. Theodore replaced his spectacles slowly, and she could see him composing himself, rebuilding his defenses against the blow he'd seen coming.
"Then why?" he asked simply.
