"What?"
"Dance with me." He held out his hand. "I have spent the entire evening lurking by this pillar like a…..What was it you said? A well-dressed gargoyle. I should like to do something other than lurk."
"You hate dancing."
"I hate dancing with strangers. I hate the obligation of small talk and the performance of social grace." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I do not hate dancing with you."
Lillian felt heat rise to her cheeks; absurd, after a year of marriage, that he could still make her blush with nothing more than proximity and intention.
"People will talk," she said. "A duke dancing with his own wife. It will be considered singular."
"Let them talk. I have spent my entire life worrying about what people would say, and it brought me nothing but loneliness." He took her hand, his thumb tracing a gentle circle against her palm. "I would rather be singular with you than conventional without you."
She let him lead her onto the floor.
The dance was a waltz; intimate by the standards of the ton, requiring a closeness that had once been considered scandalous. Daniel's hand settled at her waist with familiar ease, and Lillian placed her own hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him through the layers of cloth.
"You are quite good at this," she observed, as they moved through the first figures. "For a man who claims to hate dancing."
"I had an excellent teacher."
"You had a dancing master when you were twelve."
"I was referring to you." His hand tightened slightly at her waist. "You taught me that there were things worth doing even when they frightened me. Dancing is merely one of them."
"I did not teach you anything. You learned it yourself."
"I learned it because of you. Because you made me want to be better than I was." His voice was low, meant for her alone. "Everything good in my life traces back to you, Lillian. I hope you know that."
"You give me too much credit."
"I give you exactly the credit you deserve. Which is considerable." He turned her through a spin, and she felt the brief disorientation of movement, the solid anchor of his grip bringing her back to center. "Before you, I was a man playing at life, going through the motions, fulfilling obligations, feeling nothing that mattered. You woke me up."
"You woke yourself up. I merely opened the curtains."
"And let in the light." He smiled down at her, and she saw in his expression everything he had once been too afraid to show; love, tenderness, the fierce joy of having chosen and been chosen in return. "I love you, you know. In case I have not mentioned it recently."
"You mentioned it this morning. And last night. And several times during dinner."
"Then I am consistent. That should count for something."
"It counts for a great deal." Lillian stepped closer as the dance brought them together, close enough to feel his breath against her hair. "I love you too. In case that was in doubt."
"It is never in doubt. But I do enjoy hearing it."
The music swelled, and they moved together in perfect synchrony—two people who had learned each other's rhythms through trial and error, through conflict and reconciliation, through the daily practice of choosing each other.
When the dance ended, Daniel did not immediately release her. They stood in the middle of the ballroom, his hand still at her waist, her hand still on his shoulder, as though neither of them could bear to break the connection.
"We should return to our pillar," Lillian said finally. "Before we cause a scandal."
"What scandal? I am dancing with my wife. It is perfectly respectable."
"It is perfectly respectable to dance one dance. Two dances suggests excessive attachment. Three dances suggests we have forgotten that other people exist."
"I have forgotten that other people exist. I forgot it the moment you walked into my life." But he released her, stepping back with evident reluctance. "Very well. We shall return to the pillar. But I reserve the right to claim you for another dance later."
"Noted."
