Beside me, Chase seems to grind his teeth. In my other ear, he whispers, “I’m doing everything in my power to stop myself from telling him to keep his hands off you. I feel a deep sense of duty to protect you.” His tone is a growl, a deep animal-like possessiveness. Even though he doesn’t say it, the romantic in me hears,If I can’t have her, no one can.
Oh.
I step closer to Chase and out of Benedict’s reach. “My imagination is wild enough as it is. Thank you, but?—”
“But I insist,” Benedict says, drawing me toward the ballroom.
I wilt under his clammy-handed touch.
Meanwhile, Marlow has draped herself over Chase like a coat tree. He tries to shrug her off as my parents and the Collinses catch up with us.
“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m done dancing this evening.”
“I promise, you won’t regret it.” Benedict gives me a sharky stare.
“I said no.” I stand firmly, dress drenched, hair a mess, dignity in shreds, social battery about to die, but firmly nonetheless.
“But it’ll be a night you won’t soon forget.”
Chase shifts Marlow aside. “She said no.”
“I think a lady as fair and lovely as Pippa can speak for herself, Chase.” Benedict glares at him.
Mum steps forward. “Benedict, we meet again. Under different circumstances, my daughter might consider your offer, however, as it is, Chase here is courting her.”
“Courting me?” I ask. “What is this, the nineteenth century?”
“A delightful period of history, so I hear,” Dad adds.
“Yes, we’ve arranged their marriage, but want to make sure it’s to their liking,” Mrs. Collins says.
Chase and I exchange a look. One that asks,What’s going onandDid we step back in timeandIs this for real? At least that’s what I’m thinking. The longer our gazes hold, the closer I come to releasing the laughter at the absurdity of this situation. The same barely contained sensation ripples across his features, confirming that we’re on the same page—or at the very least, reading the same historical romance. But I’m afraid it’s satire,while, at least based on what he said about a date, he wouldn’t object to a courtship.
But chances are, it would end in laughter at my expense.
Benedict doubles down, taking both my hands. I shuffle back, knocking into a very hard surface before realizing it’s Chase’s chest. Grabbing for him so I don’t fall over, I blurt, “If you’ll excuse me.”
Our hands come together and don’t let go as I hurry around the corner, picking up the pace before stopping in an alcove when I’m confident I’m in the clear.
It’s official, I’ve reached maximum capacity. I’ve breached the threshold for socializing and avoiding creepy baroque suit-wearing men. I press my hand to my forehead and pace two steps in one direction and then the other. “I need to get away. Time to think. A break from people.”
“Do I count as people?” Chase asks.
Noticing that he’s also here, because I dragged him along, I say, “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m on the edge of overwhelm.”
Chase gently grips my upper arms and holds my gaze. His palms are rough. His fingers strong. There’s nothing unwelcome about his touch. I dare a glimpse at his blue eyes. He blinks a few times and takes several deep breaths as if encouraging me to do the same. Mercifully, things slow down.
If his face were a slideshow, I’d be watching him swipe through several expressions—like he had an idea, wrestled with it, then landed on an answer, but I’m not sure what it is or the original question.
At last, I draw a deep breath.
“Pippa, I’m sorry. That was intense. Forget about Benedict, though.”
“And marry you?” I blurt because that’s where things were left off with our parents.
“Yes, no. I don’t know,” he repeats, but the sincerity in his eyes sends a different message. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“Except embarrass myself in front of everyone.”
