She smiled. A real one, warm and bright. And it dealt a death blow to the last of his resolve.
The orchestra began a waltz. Because of course it did. A country dance would have been manageable. But a waltz meant her hand in his and his hand on her waist for the duration, and the universe was apparently not done punishing him for past sins.
Even through gloves, the feel of her hand in his sent a jolt through his arm that he felt in his teeth.
They took the floor and he placed his right hand at her waist and felt her fingers settle on his shoulder. Their free hands clasped together, and every point of contact was a searing heat through leather and silk.
She was light. That was the first thing he noticed. Light and responsive, following his lead with grace and…trust.
She trusted him to guide her, which was both gratifying and catastrophic, because the only thing he was likely to guide them both toward was ruin. Even now, in the midst of a circling crowd of dancers, all he wanted to do was tug her close and kiss her so senseless she forgot her name.
She didn't fill the silence with chatter but just looked at him. Her face, tilted up to his, was close enough that he could count the individual lashes framing those impossible eyes.
"You're staring," she said softly.
"You're staring back."
Her lips curved. "I suppose I am."
The music carried them. His hand tightened on her waist, and she shifted closer, her skirts swooshing and brushing against his legs.
"Sebastian." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Estella." A warning? A plea? He wasn't sure.
"Tell me something true." Her eyes were steady on his. "Just one thing. About you and me."
The ballroom was a blur as they spun, with people all around. But for Sebastian, there was only her. The feel of her in his arms, and the sight of those beautiful eyes, those soft lips…
"One true thing," he repeated.
She nodded. And truly, he might not have answered if he hadn’t seen it. The flicker of vulnerability. The heart aching fear and longing behind her brave mask.
The waltz was ending. He could feel it in the shift of the music, the approaching final measures. It was a mistake to answer, but…
She was putting her heart on the line, and he could not bring himself to hurt it. So despite the warning shout in the back of his mind telling him this was folly, that he really ought to stick with the plan… He rebelled.
"I think about you." The words came out low and rough. His voice, apparently, had joined the mutiny. "Every minute of every day. I think about you."
The music stopped.
They stood there for a beat too long. His palm still on her waist, her fingers still on his shoulder, their other hands still clasped. The room seemed to hold its breath.
Or perhaps that was only him.
Then he released her and stepped back.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. She was radiant.
"Meet me," she said quickly. "Later. The garden. I need to speak with you properly. Without?—"
She gestured at the ballroom. The gesture encompassed hundreds of guests, a twelve-piece orchestra, and every social convention that stood between them.
He should say no.
"When?" he asked.
"After the supper dance. The east garden. There's a bench near the fountain."
