"I'll take my chances."
CHAPTER 10
Her hand trembled in his. Thallos felt it—the faint quiver running through her fingers like a plucked string—and something in his chest tightened. She was here. She'd said yes. And she was terrified.
*Easy,* he told himself. *Don't spook her.*
"First thing." He kept his voice low and conversational, like they were discussing wine varietals instead of something that felt seismic. "Forget everything you think you know about dancing."
"That shouldn't be hard." Her laugh came out strained. "I don't know anything."
"You know more than you realize. Your body knows." He stepped closer, and she tensed—just slightly, just enough for him to notice. "The problem is your head keeps getting in the way."
"My head is very good at getting in the way."
"I've noticed."
The corner of her mouth twitched. Progress.
He positioned himself beside her rather than in front, giving her space to breathe. The lantern light played across her features, catching the nervous dart of her eyes, and the way she kept worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
*Gods, she's beautiful.*
He'd known she was attractive since the moment he first saw her, but this was different. This was Marigold in his grove, wearing a dress that made her look like spring personified, choosing to trust him despite every instinct screaming at her to run.
He'd never wanted anyone more in his life.
*Focus,* he commanded himself. *This isn't about what you want.*
"The dance we'll do at the festival is a waltz," he said, forcing his mind back to practical matters. "Traditional, simple, nothing fancy. Three beats to a measure. One-two-three, one-two-three. Can you count to three?"
"I think I can manage that."
"Then you're already halfway there." He squeezed her hand gently. "The rest is just movement. And movement is just listening."
"Listening to what?"
"To me. To the music. To your own body." He turned to face her properly, and she drew a sharp breath. "May I?"
She nodded, a jerky little motion that suggested she wasn't entirely sure what she was agreeing to.
He lifted her left hand and placed it on his shoulder. He felt the warmth of her palm through his shirt like a brand, and he watched her fingers curl reflexively into the muscle beneath.
"Good," he said hoarsely. "Now I'm going to put my hand on your back. Is that alright?"
Another nod. Faster this time.
He settled his palm against the small of her back, just above the curve of her hip. The sundress was soft under his fingers, but it was the heat of her skin beneath that made his breath catch. She was so warm. So alive. So achingly close.
His other hand found hers, lifting it to the proper height between them.
"This is the closed position," he said. "The hold we'll use for the opening dance. It might feel formal at first, but?—"
"It feels intimate."
The word hung in the air between them.
"Yes." There was no point denying it. "It does. That's the point, actually. The waltz was considered scandalous when it first appeared in Europe. All that touching. All that looking into each other's eyes." He tipped his head, catching her gaze. "It was the closest a respectable man and woman could get without causing a riot."
