The praise shouldn’t have affected him. He was not an adolescent. He was a duke, a man who’d faced down Parliament and survived scandals that would have destroyed lesser men. Simple words of encouragement shouldn’t make his chest swell with something approaching pride.
Yet they did.
They moved through the sequence once more, and this time the steps came easier. Lillian’s confidence grew as she realized he wasn’t going to scold her for mistakes, and soon they were actually moving together rather than simply avoiding collision.
Edmund felt something unfamiliar stirring in his chest—not quite happiness, but adjacent to it. Something warm and almost painful in its intensity, as though muscles long unused were remembering how to function.
“I still don’t understand,” Lillian said after they’d completed several successful passes. She pulled away with a pout that transformed her from earnest student into petulant child. “The rhythm feels wrong when I try to lead with my own feet. Show me, Isadora. Demonstrate with him so I can watch how it’s supposed to look.”
Edmund’s stomach dropped to somewhere around his boots.
Dance with Isadora? Touch her deliberately rather than through accidental contact? Maintain the sort of proximity required for proper form while pretending his pulse wasn’t hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest entirely?
“That’s hardly necessary—” he began, but his voice emerged rougher than intended.
“It’s an excellent suggestion,” Isadora interrupted, and he heard the challenge beneath her words. “If Lillian learns by observation, then observation she shall have.”
She moved closer with steps that suggested reluctance matched his own. But when she placed her hand in his—that small, elegant hand with its ink-stained fingers—Edmund felt something fundamental shift in his chest.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact. Her palm against his, warm and alive and utterly destroying whatever composure he’d been attempting to maintain. He could feel her pulse through skin and glove, could sense the slight tremor that suggested she was as affected by this contact as he was.
Her other hand settled at his shoulder, light as breath but burning nonetheless. His own hand found her waist with movements that felt simultaneously practiced and entirely foreign, spanning the narrow curve beneath burgundy wool with fingers that trembled despite his best efforts at control.
They stood like that for one suspended heartbeat, close enough that he could count individual lashes framing hazel eyes gone wide with something between alarm and anticipation. The scent of lavender intensified, mingling with woodsmoke and pine until Edmund felt drunk on it.
She was so close. Close enough to see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, close enough to note the way her lips had parted slightly as though she’d forgotten to breathe. Close enough that if he leaned forward just a fraction, he could?—
No. Absolutely not. That path led to destruction.
“The steps,” Isadora whispered, though whether reminding him or herself wasn’t clear.
Edmund began to move, and she followed with the sort of natural grace that made leading effortless. Forward—their bodies aligned perfectly despite the careful distance theymaintained. Side—her skirts brushed his legs with whispers that felt indecent in their intimacy. Together—they moved as though they’d danced together a thousand times rather than this being their first.
The melody Isadora had been humming filled his head, though neither of them sang now. Around them, the drawing room receded until nothing existed except the two of them moving together in perfect synchronization. His hand at her waist felt every breath she took, every slight shift of weight, the rapid rhythm of her pulse that matched his own frantic beating.
This was madness. Pure madness. They were supposed to be demonstrating steps for Lillian’s benefit, maintaining appropriate distance while fulfilling their roles as guardian and ward supervisor. Nothing more and nothing less.
But there was nothing appropriate about the heat building between them. Nothing educational about the way his fingers tightened fractionally against her waist, or how her hand on his shoulder seemed to burn through every layer between them.
Her eyes met his, and Edmund’s heart skipped a beat when he read the emotion in the depths thereof. The same desire, the same fear, the same terrible recognition that whatever they’d agreed their marriage would be, it was rapidly becoming something far more dangerous.
They completed the sequence, coming to rest in proper final position. But neither moved immediately. Edmund’s hand remained at her waist, her fingers still rested on his shoulder,and the space between them felt charged with possibilities he had no business considering.
He should release her. He should step back and restore the careful distance that kept them both safe from whatever was building in the charged air between them.
But he couldn’t make himself let go. Couldn’t force his fingers to release the narrow span of her waist, or his other hand to drop hers. For one wild moment, he considered what would happen if he simply pulled her closer, eliminated the careful inches separating them, and?—
“You see?” Isadora said suddenly, her voice emerging rougher than usual. She stepped back with movements that suggested retreat rather than simple conclusion, breaking contact with enough force to make Edmund’s hands feel empty and cold. “Like that. The rhythm becomes natural when both partners understand their roles.”
She turned away quickly—too quickly, confirming that whatever he’d felt during those charged moments, she’d experienced as well. Her hand pressed against flushed cheeks while she moved to the room’s edge, putting safe distance between them with movements that spoke of panic barely contained.
Edmund wanted to follow her. Wanted to close that distance and demand she acknowledge what was building between them, wanted to confess that he’d been lying when he called their marriage meaningless.
But Lillian was clapping her hands with enthusiasm that suggested she’d missed the undercurrents entirely. “Again! With me this time. I want to try while it’s fresh in my mind.”
Edmund resumed position opposite his ward with movements that felt mechanical. His entire being remained focused on Isadora standing at the room’s edge, her breathing still rapid, her expression shifting too quickly to read.
What had just happened? What alchemy had occurred in those few charged moments when they’d moved together across polished floors?
