Rose pursed her lips to avoid giggling at Ben’s puzzled expression. “If I curtsy to a woman of equal station, I only need to dip a bit. As opposed to when I met the Queen—” Rose dipped impossibly close to the path beneath her feet, held a beat, and stood in a move her mother had made her practice until she could manage it without bobbling.
Ben’s eyes were wide. “You met the Queen?”
“Only once,” she said, shaking out her skirts, “when I debuted in court. She was rarely out in society after her husband died.”
When she raised her head, Ben had turned away, his gaze unseeing over the wide lawns of the park. “Ben—”
“Is that all I need to know?” he asked, his voice dull and muted.
A lifetime as Fern’s twin had taught Rose to read emotions lurking below the surface. Fern could never express her feelings until they overwhelmed her like a tidal wave, and no one could bring her back or provide the comfort Fern needed except Rose.
The song of the carousel in the distance reached her ears, its tinny organ tones a poor mimic of the tunes her twin played on the piano in their childhood home. Rose wondered if Fern still played. If Alex comforted her the way Rose always had.
Did anyone need Rose anymore?
Whatever pain she had caused, whatever demons Ben battled, she could comfort him, distract him, until he was strong enough to face it on his own. “No, that’s not all,” she burst out, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
Rose grabbed his uninjured hand and dragged him down the slope toward the music, then stopped when the ground leveled out again. “Dancing,” she said, her heart pounding as she turned to face him.
“Do you expect me to dance with Mrs. Anthony?” A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, although it didn't take hold.
Emboldened by his reaction, she grinned. “No, but I love this song and… if you can bow, you can dance.”
He shook his head. “Rose, I—”
“I walk fast,” she reminded him. “And please, I adore dancing and haven’t had the chance in some time.” Rose pressed one palm to his chest above his heart. “Please, Ben.”
He pursed his lips, and Rose was certain he’d refuse her. “Fine, one dance,” he said, and Rose’s heart skipped.
“Then let’s make it count.” She took his left hand in hers, then looked at his injured arm with furrowed brows. “Oh, you can’t hold me.”
“Step closer.” His voice emerged in a growl from low in his chest, and electricity ran down her spine to settle deep in her belly like a weight. “I can manage if you’re close.”
Gingerly, he put his right arm along her lower back, his palm spreading as his fingertips pressed against her flesh. She needed to step close enough that his chest brushed against hers. “Can you waltz?” she asked in a breathy voice she barely recognized.
“One two three, isn’t it?”
Rose nodded. She didn’t know the name of the piece—Fern could have named it without hesitation, but Rose had never been that clever—but she knew the rhythm, the steps moving her legs before she could panic at the intimacy of their pose.
Drawing in a deep breath, Rose met his gaze. “One two three,” she counted before stepping sideways. Ben followed, hesitantly, then growing in confidence as they moved in a slow circle on the green. They could not have been further from a ballroom—children screeched at their mother for coins to ride the flying horses, and a man in the distance cried out hawking the evening paper—but Rose could have been standing in Buckingham Palace, gliding over parquet floors in the finest fashion. Ben held her close, far closer than would be appropriate in London, but she sensed how his need echoed hers, the need for reassurance, for grounding in their shared humanity, if only for a moment.
His touch in so many places—the small of her back, his palm in hers, the brush of her breasts against his chest—sent shimmers to her core. Not fireworks, but the moment just before the explosion, when the air seems to hold still in expectation.
The tune ground to a halt before transitioning into something upbeat, and Rose slowed her steps, allowing her forehead to brush against Ben’s chin. He held still, as though frightened to stir and break the moment, shattering whatever bubble they had created. She leaned closer and let her eyes drop shut as he lowered his head, as though he might—
“We should go,” he said finally, his voice rough.
“We should,” Rose echoed, but neither of them moved. She drew back and allowed the disappointment to ease.
Whatever attraction she held for Ben was not going to be returned, and she was a fool for letting herself want anything more than she could have. Rose was always doing that,wantingmore from people than they were willing to give her, more than she deserved. She would have to find contentment in his company, chalk up this budding desire to the unexpected lure of attraction and let it go as unrequited.
With a grim smile, she patted Ben on the chest to feel the paper tucked in his breast pocket. “We should be off. This letter won’t deliver itself.”
In the end, Rose’s etiquette lesson had been unnecessary. She tried her hardest when stating her case to the Belmonts’ butler, and Ben was impressed by her ability to charm the man until she gestured in Ben’s direction.
The butler’s eyes fixed on Ben and held before he snatched the letter from Rose’s outstretched hand and stormed inside, slamming the door behind him. A scathing look and slammed door were not uncommon reactions to his presence on the Upper West Side, but Rose’s trembling hands and wide eyes showed the rejection had been a first for her.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said when she reached his side.
