“Is that all this is?” she asked.
He spun her, catching her back against him, close enough that her breath stuttered. “You know it is not. You know this is real. More real than anything either of us has experienced before. Real enough to terrify us both.”
“You do not look terrified.”
“I am. Have been since you strode into the room that day ready for battle. Terrified of wanting you. Of needing you. Of this… feeling that has overrun every rational thought I possess.”
“What feeling?” she pressed.
“You know it.”
“Say it.”
“Not here,” he murmured. “Not with half of London watching.”
“Then when?”
“Later. Tonight.”
“You’re going to say it then?”
“I’m going to say it and show it and prove it in ways that will leave no doubt in your mind or anyone else’s.”
The music swelled around them, and Celine gave herself over to it, to him, to this moment that felt both endless andfar too brief. His hand at her waist was firm, possessive. His eyes never left hers. And everyone watching could see what was written across both their faces—desire, need, something deeper than both.
When the dance ended, the ballroom erupted in applause and whispers. Four dances. The Duke of Rothwest had danced four times with his wife, each dance more intimate than the last.
“We should leave,” he said roughly.
“It’s not even midnight.”
“I could not care less. If we remain, I will dance with you again. And again. Until someone drags me from the floor.”
“That would certainly make the gossip sheets.”
“Everything tonight will. Better we choose the final image they carry home.”
She inclined her head. “I shall fetch my cloak.”
“I will make our excuses to the Duke.”
As she crossed the ballroom, conversations dimmed and heads turned. In the ladies’ retiring room, she encountered the Duchess of Haverford.
“Four dances,” the Duchess said coldly. “With His Grace.”
“Is there a purpose to this recital?” Celine asked.
“You make a spectacle of yourself.”
“By dancing with my own husband?”
“The Duke does not enjoy anything. He merely endures.”
Celine’s temper sparked. “Perhaps you do not know him as you imagine.”
“I knew his mother. I knew what he put her through.”
Celine’s temper flared. “You knew a child. A child who had lost his father and was drowning in grief. A child who needed compassion. I wonder—where was yours?”
