“Miss Wilde, there you are,” Drake swooped to her aide, his arm sliding gracefully through hers and tugging her to his side.
Drake’s effect was instant. The matrons turned their shoulders, lips sucking inward, and noses wrinkled in perfect unison.
“Lord Drake,” the boldest acknowledged, though Miranda recognized the tone as begrudgingly polite. They would not overtly insult him at such a gathering, but his presence was not welcome. Was this truly some blatant display of prejudice? In the home of a Night Fae, were they really going to turn up their noses at Drake?
“We were just chatting with Miss Wilde,” another continued, “I’m sure there are…others better served by your particular charms.”
“The serving staff gather near the corners, dear, if you’re more comfortable with their sort of conversation, as I can imagine the bolder topics of such a gathering would prove cumbersome.”
Miranda’s jaw hung open, too stunned to speak while they insulted Drake without batting an eye. It wasn’t that he was a half-fae, they disliked him because he had been born poor. He bore it without comment, his smile fading with each word they threw at him.
“Actually,” Miranda started, and the matrons all rounded on her, waiting for her to aid them in sending Drake away, “I’d rather talk with him than endure another second of your cruel backhanded comments.”
The lady closest to her scoffed, putting a hand to her heart. “If you consider honesty to be cruel—”
“No, just you.” Miranda hooked her arm through Drake’s, reveling in their gasps of horror. “Lord Drake, you were saying?”
Miranda felt a warm flutter when his smile returned. “I was here for the promised dance, of course. If you’re still up for it, Miss Wilde.”
“The…what?”
He laughed, his humor returning as he squeezed her arm to his side. “Ladies, it has been a pleasure talking with you in spite of your callous wit, but then, the staff provide such intellectually superior conversation it’s understandable you’d prefer the company of those…similarly limited.”
He bowed and guided Miranda away, as the older matrons watched with open mouths as Miranda was whisked to the dance floor by the notorious Lord Devin Drake. They would have plenty to say tomorrow, but for now, they were speechless.
“What are you doing?” Miranda whispered as they joined the throng of dancers, next to a horned man with irises a molten red. She had stepped in on Drake’s behalf, but she had not agreed to dance with him.
“I believe this is called a dance,” Drake replied with a grin. “I thought you’d be familiar.”
Her jaw sealed shut. She should walk away right now. She should not, under any circumstances, dance with Drake. His smile was too inviting. His manner too exasperating. His smell too intoxicating—was he sober today?Instead of spirits she caught the warm scent of leather and an earthy soap that muddled her already frayed senses.
He made herfeeltoo much. Too much heat. Too much frustration. Too much longing. Instead of leaving, her body moved as it had been programmed. The steps committed to muscle memory.
They came together, paired off alongside the rest of the dancers. Drake’s hand settled on her hip, his head tilted down.
How could he possibly know this dance? She found it hard to believe Drake could follow the steps drilled into her since shecould walk, yet, there he was, leading her through the dance with the fluid ease of a natural. Her breathing grew rushed. Color rose in her cheeks. The start of a smile threatened to commandeer her mouth but she resisted, for she refused to smile at Drake of her own volition.
“We should slip out before the song picks up,” she whispered fiercely. She felt the gentle press of his hand like a candle flame, though there was no way for his body heat to coax through her many layers.
They swirled over the marble floor. Intertwined with dancers too absorbed in their own partners to notice how hard her heart was beating or how even the way he looked at her right now was somehow improper. He brought his face near her ear.
“Relax, love. We now have a clear path to the other side of the room.” He spun her a bit harder than the dance required, breaking from the intended flow and closer to their goal.
Miranda shook her head, her fingers clawing into his shoulder. “You really need to stop touching me under the ruse of something else.”
Heat flickered in his gaze. “Are you inviting me to touch you without a reason? Quite the bold assertion, but,” his voice turned to silk as he dipped her backward then back up until she was flush against him in a flourish that was entirely unnecessary for this set. “I’d happily satisfy any desire you request, Miss Wilde.”
She rooted her foot to the floor, halting his next step and he nearly stumbled. She expected him to get angry. Men always got angry when she showed aggression or asserted herself.
Devin laughed.
She continued to pout, but it was more of a stubborn purse of her lips.
“If I fall, I’m dragging you down with me,” he said, sweeping her along, their feet moving in perfect step. One-two-three-one-two-three-one-two-three.
Miranda smiled. Their speed increased, and she was starting to have fun. Dancing, fun. She would not have believed it two minutes ago.
“If you think you can,” she parried.
