She took his hand.
And the whispers stopped—replaced by a collective intake of breath as the Duke of Ashworth led the poor relation, the invisible woman, the nobody in the silver gown, onto the dance floor.
The dance was a waltz.
Sebastian had not known what the next dance would be when he asked her. Had not cared. But when the music began, and he drew her into his arms, he felt a surge of gratitude for the intimacy the waltz allowed.
His hand rested at her waist. Her hand rested on his shoulder. They were closer than propriety strictly allowed, but propriety had ceased to matter some time ago.
“Everyone is watching,” Cecilia murmured as they began to move.
“Let them watch.”
“They will talk. They are already talking.”
“I daresay they have been talking since the moment you entered the room.” Sebastian guided her through a turn, marvelling at how naturally she moved in his arms. “Did you not hear the whispers?”
“I did.” A fleeting shadow crossed her expression—something perilously close to anxiety. “What do you suppose they are saying?”
“That I have taken leave of my senses. That you are a fortune-hunter who has contrived to entrap a duke. That my mother must be deranged to permit such an acquaintance.” He drew her a fraction nearer. “And that I am the most fortunateman in the room, because I have found the only woman worth dancing with.”
“I doubt that is what they are saying.”
“It is what I am saying. The rest can go hang.”
She laughed—a real laugh, startled from her despite herself. The sound was like light, like music, like everything he had missed since she left.
“You are different,” she said softly. “Since I last saw you. Something has changed.”
“I stopped pretending.” He met her eyes. “In the library, I told you I was tired of performing. I have been thinking about that ever since. About the performance I maintain—the careful duke, the measured responses, the endless calculation of how I must appear.”
“And?”
“And I am done with it. Not entirely—some performance is necessary, in my position—but done with performing with you. Done with pretending I feel less than I do, or hiding behind propriety when my heart is screaming to be heard.”
The music swelled around them. They moved together as though they had been dancing this way for years—anticipating each other’s movements, adjusting without conscious thought, perfectly synchronised.
“When this dance ends,” Cecilia said quietly, “what happens?”
“I do not know. I have not thought beyond this moment.”
“People will expect an explanation. An announcement. Something to make sense of what they have witnessed.”
“Then we will give them an explanation.” Sebastian’s hand tightened at her waist. “Or we will not. We will do whatever you wish, Cecilia. I will not rush you, or pressure you, or demand more than you are prepared to give.”
“What if I am prepared to give everything?”
The words hit him like a physical blow. He stumbled slightly, recovered, and continued the dance through sheer muscle memory.
“Then everything is what I will take,” he said. “But only if you are certain. Only if you understand what you are committing to.”
“A lifetime of being whispered about. Of fighting for acceptance in a world that will never entirely welcome me.”
“Yes.”
“And also, a lifetime with you. Talking with you, arguing with you, building that something together that we spoke of.”
“Also, yes.”
