Her breath caught.
He watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the faintest tremor in her hand, the flush rising beneath her mask. She worked to hide it. She always worked to hide everything that revealed her real feelings. But tonight, the mask emboldened him, and perhaps emboldened her as well.
“You have been dancing,” he said, gesturing toward the floor.
“A bit,” she answered, her voice calmer than her pulse seemed to be. “One can be carried away by the music.”
“Or by curiosity,” he said. “You enjoy being anonymous.”
“I enjoy being unobserved,” she corrected, swirling the punch in her cup. “People look without thinking. They categorize without understanding. It is… refreshing to escape that for a moment.”
Miles stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice. “They observe you because you are worth observing.”
She stared at him, stunned.
He held her gaze. “Mask or not, you are impossible to overlook.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “You should not say such things.”
“Should I not?”
“It is dangerous.”
“For whom?” he asked gently.
“For both of us.”
For a moment, neither moved. The crowd swirled around them in a blur of color and sound, but they stood in stillness, held by something neither could name properly—something delicate and intense and pulsing beneath their ribs like a secret begging to be spoken.
The music changed, shifting into a slower, more melodic pattern. Couples drifted toward the floor, forming neat linesand elegant arcs. Miles extended his hand to her with deliberate slowness, giving her every chance to refuse.
She hesitated.
Her gloved fingers trembled.
Then she placed her hand in his.
They moved onto the floor.
The dance was graceful, measured, a series of turns and circles designed to draw partners close, then send them apart, then draw them close again. Jillian followed his lead with fluid ease, allowing herself, for once, to be guided entirely by someone else. Her skirts brushed his legs. Her breath mingled with his. He felt the warmth of her through silk and satin, a warmth that traveled up his arm and settled somewhere disconcertingly near his heart.
When the dance required separation, she stepped back, the mask hiding the fullness of her expression but not the brightness in her eyes.
When the dance required closeness, she moved toward him again, and the breath snagged in his chest.
By the final turn, Miles knew that if he did not speak, he might never forgive himself.
He drew her just slightly closer than the dance strictly allowed—not enough for scandal, but enough that only she would feel the intent behind it. “Jillian,” he murmured.
Her breath shivered across his jaw. “Yes?”
“I do not know what I am meant to do with these feelings.”
She blinked. “Feelings?”
“Yes,” he said, his thumb brushing her hand in the smallest, most reverent caress. “Thosefeelings.”
“Ah,” she whispered, suddenly unsteady. “Those.”
