“The night is young, someone will ask her to dance,” Seth said.
“It appears you’re right.” Cooper’s voice took on a sour note and his face hardened as he directed his attention to the middle of the ballroom. “Colonel Bishop has his sights set on her. I promised I wouldn’t interfere. But someone should.”
Seth’s eyes scanned the ballroom floor with lightning speed. Guests parted the way for Bishop as he sauntered toward Cassandra and the burning sensation that had cooled with her smile rose within him, boiling over. It wasn’t his place to get involved. It wasnothis place. But the blood ringing in his ears drowned out the orchestra and the crowd and silenced every thought in his mind except for one.
Anyone but him.
Before another thought could register, Seth found his feet carryinghim in Cassandra’s direction, leaving Cooper gawking behind him. Sounds of surprise escaped guests as they scattered from his path. Seth reached Cassandra three paces before Bishop did and blurted out three words in a single breath.
“Dance with me.”
***
Cassandra’s eyes widened. One moment, Mr. Reeves was across the ballroom standing next to Matthew with a lethal expression, and the next he had charged his way to her and shouted the command. Her breath was shallow as she looked about her. Colonel Bishop had stopped in his approach and was regarding them with narrowed eyes. Her gaze shifted between blue eyes and green, both waiting for her reaction.
Along with the rest of the occupants of the ballroom.
Everyone is staring.
“What?” She cringed at her lack of eloquence.
Mr. Reeves bowed to her, stiff-backed and perfectly executed, as if he had practiced it a thousand times over. He cleared his throat with one solid sound, and asked, slower, “Miss Cooper, would you favor me with this dance?”
Cassandra stood gaping at him. She looked to Aunt Valentine for direction and the older woman gave her a nod of approval.
“She will,” Aunt Valentine said, flicking her hands in a shooing motion. “Go on, before the music starts.”
But the music had already started. Her arm tucked into his, he led her to the middle of the ballroom, and as soon as the orchestra played the third note, she realized what she agreed to.
A waltz.
She had one lesson in waltzing—if one could call it that—with an aged dancing instructor that her parents could only afford for one afternoon. Within a half hour, the poor man left the estate with asprained ankle, holding his scuffed shoes in one hand as her father helped him into a carriage. A bill from the man’s doctor came a week later.
She was going to fall flat on her face.
Swept into his hold, one gloved hand glided along the small of her back, the other hand clasped her hand gently. With a whisper of a touch, he brought her to him until they were mere inches apart. Close enough that she could feel his breath ghosting the fine hairs about her brow; the strands tickled her cheekbones. She met his gaze to find that his eyes were only on her. With a soft smile, Mr. Reeves eased her into the steps as the music began in earnest.
Trying to remember her limited instruction, she watched her feet and counted.One-two-three,one-two-three,one-two threeand she stepped on his toes!One-two-three, one-two-three. She stumbled slightly over her skirts, tumbling into Mr. Reeves’ chest with anoof. Heat burned at her cheeks and she wished the floor would open beneath her.
“Miss Cooper. Look at me, not your feet.” His tone was gentle as he eased her away from him again and corrected their posture. “Let me lead you.”
“I’ll keep stepping on your toes.” She looked down again.
“You won’t.” Mr. Reeves squeezed her hand and exerted more pressure onto her back. “Now. Chin up here.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Keep your eyes on me. Yes. Like that. Good.”
She blushed at his praise, and further when he squeezed her side, his fingertips guiding her into the next series of steps.
“One-two-three,” he lightly mouthed the count, barely above a breath, “one-two-three.”
Cassandra kept her eyes trained on his face, watching the movement of his lips. He had received lessons of far better quality than she had. She would have bet on it. He was unexpectedly agile, though shewasn’t sure why that surprised her. She knew he was athletic, but it would have never occurred to her howgracefulhe was, how he could make her float around him as if she were a leaf in the wind. In his formal attire, he was a stranger to her. Polished, starched, refined in his movements and manner. He looked every bit like an aristocrat.
And a hero.
The gaps in candlelight cast shadows on his face and neck, preventing her from seeing the scars that she knew would be on the curve of his jaw and the delicate skin of his neck. He must be covered in them.
Nine men from a burning building.
A hero’s reward.The only reward that he seemed to have earned was a mixture of interest and scorn, each of them insulting in equal measure. It was no wonder that he preferred to keep to himself.
