“Speak for yourself, Duchess,” he mused. “My skills at dancing are perfectly adept. Yours…”
She shot him a look.
“Yours are fine too,” he conceded with a chuckle. “Your friends are watching us.”
He pointed to the sidelines—where, sure enough, Daphne and Violet were watching their every move.
“They have nothing better to do,” Isadora dismissed. “Better not to pay attention to them.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare when I am waltzing with the Duchess herself.” He said the words so casually that it almost unnerved her.
“You’re being very nice to me,” she commented.
“Blame the dress,” he grinned.
“In that case, I should have you shop for my clothes more often,” she conceded.
Something in Evan’s gaze darkened as she said the words.
“Oh,” he replied after a moment, clearing his throat. “I suppose that can be arranged.”
It was a small moment, but it shifted something between them. Almost as though there was an increased awareness of one another—a new intimacy.
Isadora found herself wanting to lean into it, but Evan shook his head, as if he was willing himself to snap out of it.
She should have known he wouldn’t let the moment pass without conversation.
“I must admit,” he murmured, his voice smooth, “I was rather intrigued by your little vow.”
“Oh, are you still thinking of that,” she said, wanting to murder Daphne for bringing it up. “It was just an offhand comment and nothing else.”
“You are a bad liar,” Evan noted. She was. “Besides you cannot blame me for being curious. I am always intrigued when someone swears off something before even trying it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I never swore off anything. It was simply something I…” She knew that she had to choose her words quite carefully. Finally, she settled on “preferred”.
“Tell me then, clearly,” he emphasized, “what was it that you preferred?”
Oh heavens. She was already too deep into a conversation that she didn’t really wish to have. But Evan waited for an answer, and he wouldn’t let it slip by easily.
“I always wanted a marriage that was… safe,” she admitted finally.
“Hmm.”
“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze directly. “A comfortable match. Someone I could rely on without fear. A man who would be steady and predictable. Someone I could… trust.”
Evan studied her, his expression unreadable.
“Predictable,” he echoed.
She nodded once. “Yes.”
His lips curved slightly, but there was something almost… thoughtful in the way he looked at her now.
“Rest assured, predictability is not one my traits,” he noted.
“Yes. A cruel trick of fate.”
Evan chuckled. “Fate does have a sense of humor, I suppose. But what about trust?”
