Emmeline’s breath caught, and the dance brought them closer through the turn. Her skirt brushed his leg. His hand steadied at her waist, and the heat moved through her in one slow, devastating sweep.
“I told him adults sometimes say things badly when they are hurting,” she said.
Rowan’s face tightened. “Generous.”
“Accurate.”
His gaze burned. “And did you tell yourself the same?”
For a moment, the music, the room, the watching ton all blurred beneath the force of him.
He had not apologized. He still had not apologized. Yet the question held something raw enough to scrape against the place in her that wanted to believe he regretted it.
“I told myself,” she said quietly, “that hurt explains cruelty. It does not undo it.”
His breath shifted.
They turned again, and this time Rowan’s hand slid more firmly around her waist, pulling her close enough that her breath caught against his chest.
Emmeline felt every inch of him through the movement—the hard strength of his body, the heat beneath his evening coat, the dangerous restraint in the fingers flexing once against her gown.
“Emmeline,” he said, and her name in his mouth nearly ruined her.
She looked up.
His eyes had darkened, the gray turned storm-heavy beneath the chandelier light. He looked as though the next words might cost him too much.
Then the music ended and applause scattered through the ballroom. Rowan released her too quickly, the loss of his hand feeling indecent.
“I must speak with Lord Ainsbury,” he said, his voice rough. “Forgive me.”
He bowed and left before she could answer.
Emmeline stood at the edge of the floor, breathless and burning, furious with herself for wanting him to stay.
She made her way toward the beverage table because her hands needed purpose and her throat had gone dry. She had barely lifted a glass when a voice like sugared glass sounded at her side.
“Your Grace.”
Emmeline knew that voice before she turned.
Lady Amanda smiled at her as though they were dear friends reunited after a charming delay. She wore pale gold and diamonds, her dark hair arranged in careful waves, her beauty polished to the point of cruelty.
“Lady Amanda,” Emmeline said.
“I have been hoping to speak with you,” Amanda said, drawing closer with a softness that made Emmeline’s stomach tighten. “How do you find marriage?”
“Agreeable enough.”
“How brave.” Amanda sighed delicately. “Truly, I admire you.”
Emmeline set her glass down without drinking. “For what?”
“For managing so beautifully.” Amanda’s eyes flicked toward Rowan across the room. He stood with two gentlemen near a column, his profile severe, his attention apparently fixed on business. “It cannot be easy.”
Emmeline’s fingers brushed the stem of the glass. “What cannot?”
Amanda’s smile turned almost sympathetic. “Having a husband so determined to avoid you.”
