“That would have been worse than three dances.”
“Debatable.”
He looked at her then—truly looked—and something softened.
“Do you mind?” he asked, not quite steady. “That they talk about us?”
“I mind that they talk about things they do not understand.”
“And what doyouunderstand?”
“That this is not simply a transaction. Or a scandal. Or even a grand romance.” She took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “It is something that does not fit neatly into any of their notions.”
“What would you call it?” he asked.
She thought for a moment. “Inevitable.”
“I used that word once. You seemed to like it.”
“I did. I do. It fits us—this sense that we were always going to happen, one way or another.”
“Even if your father hadn’t lost at cards?”
“Even then. We would have met at some ball, probably annoyed each other tremendously, and then spent months pretending we weren’t fascinated by each other.”
“Instead, we’re pretending we can wait another evening.” He groaned, dropping his forehead to rest against hers. “We should go back inside,” he continued, “before someone else comes looking and I’m forced to threaten them too.”
“You do realise you just declared your obsession with me to one of the worst gossips in London?”
“Good,” he said, offering his arm. “Let the city know. Let every last one of them understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That you are mine, and I am yours, and I will not hear a word against it.”
“Very possessive.”
“Very honest.”
***
They stepped back into the ballroom—and the stir their reappearance caused nearly eclipsed the music.
“Lady Rothwest!” Miss Weatherby materialised at Celine’s elbow, her sweetness so brittle it might shatter. “What a delight to see you enjoying yourself so thoroughly. And His Grace dancing three dances! How… singular.”
“Is it?” Celine replied pleasantly. “It seems odder to me that so many married couples avoid one another. If one cannot enjoy one’s spouse’s company, what is the point of marriage?”
“Well, yes, but—there are proprieties. Appearances.”
“Oh, certainly. Warmth between spouses is terribly unfashionable, I hear. Far better to display the chilly composure that ends in separate residences and discreet indiscretions.”
Miss Weatherby’s smile thinned. “Well, some might say excessive public display hints at private inadequacy.”
“And some might say envy is dreadfully aging,” Celine answered with equal sweetness. “But I would never be so impertinent. Ah—there is Lord Ashworth. Did you not hope for a dance with him this evening? I imagine he is quite at liberty now that his companion seems to have abandoned him for Lord Charles.”
Indeed, Miss Grayson was hanging upon Lord Charles’s arm, laughing as though she had never heard the name Ashworth in her life.
Miss Weatherby fled.
