“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at us both.” As I speak, I try to keep my face averted away from him, but I find myself returning to his gaze again and again despite my best efforts.
“Tell me honestly, Gemma.” As often as he’s used my first name in private, hearing it from his lips in a room full of spectators sends a sinful chill through me. Thank the saints no one can hear us. “Am I the worst dancer you’ve ever been forced to endure?”
“No, Mr. Rochester. Far from it.” It’s the truth. Despite his reservations, he moves just as well as anyone I’ve danced with.
He laughs, his breath stirring my hair. “Freezing hell, if that’s the case, I hate to think of the sorry souls who have stepped on your toes.”
“Oh, come on,” I say with a wry grin. “You’re too hard on yourself.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. I know you don’t love your seelie form, but you truly wear it beautifully well.”
His expression turns serious, his garnet irises glittering in the dim light of the room. “So, you like my body as it is?”
I swallow hard, my breaths growing heavy. What kind of question is that? A fae one, of course. One where he has no understanding of its implications. And yet, it’s an honest question, and I suppose I can answer with equal honesty. “I think I can safely say I’m fond of it.”
He smiles, and we continue the next few beats of the dance in silence, our gazes locked on each other. I feel his hand move slightly lower down my back, his thumb caressing the lace of my gown. Does he realize he’s doing that? I suppress a shudder and find myself inching closer, my arm growing more relaxed as my hand rests more comfortably on his shoulder, like it’s never belonged anywhere else. In this moment, I feel as if we’re the only two people in the room. We move on instinct, unaware of the other dancers, the music guiding our every step, sway, and turn.
My lips part, but I don’t know what I want to say. Everything in me wants to step even closer, press my cheek against his, feel his breath against my neck as we dance. But I don’t. For somewhere in the back of my mind is a piece of me that knows we aren’t alone. That we’re being watched, judged, assessed. Right now, it’s impossible to care, but logic tells me I will when this is all over.
When this is all over.
Yes, this moment will end. The realization has my heart sinking, making me wish this song could last forever. But I know better. Beautiful moments in my life never last. They always end badly. Still, does that mean I shouldn’t enjoy them while I can? I think back to the book I read last night, the one with the boy and the dog.Is it worth it?
Yes, it’s worth it. The good and the bad. It’s the story as a whole that matters.
But if that were true, then why have I been running from love ever since the scandal with Oswald? Why have I been pushing everyone away? Why have I been dreaming of an isolated life in Isola?
Elliot squeezes my hand, his brow furrowed. “What is it?”
I realize my gaze has dropped, and my lips have pulled into a frown. With a quick shake of my head, I return my eyes to his and force a convincing smile. “It’s—” I want to say it’s nothing, but can’t summon the words. Because it isn’t nothing. It’s everything. Something has changed inside me, and I can’t ignore it any longer. The truth is, I’ve grown to like Elliot in a way he’ll never be able to like me back. All he wants is to be rid of his seelie form and become a wolf again. How many times has he reminded me of this fact? When the curse is broken, he’ll flee this place, return to the caves he was once so fond of.
And I…I’ll lose him.
Like the boy and his dog.
But if I’m the boy in this story, and Elliot is the dog, then perhaps I can accept that my life has become better from him being in it. Maybe it’s even true that he’s saved me in a way. Reminded me what it’s like to open up to someone, trust someone with the pains of my past. Maybe I’m starting to believe in…I can’t even think the word. But I know it’s there. That tender connection between two people. Maybe it doesn’t have to last forever to be real.
The song draws near its end, and with it comes an urge to speak my truth—the answer to his question that still hangs between us. We slow to a stop with the music and pause in place, my hand still clasped in his, his palm still firm against my back.
I take a deep breath. “It’s just…I think I’m going to miss you, wolf man.”
The crease deepens between his brows. He opens his mouth to speak, but this is where the dancers must part and offer curtsies and bows. I dip low, and he folds into a bow a moment too late. As we rise, his expression remains flustered, but again any potential response from him is cut off as the floor erupts with polite applause. The sound acts as a wall in my mind, one that seals off this moment from the last, between now and the magic of our dance. On this side lies logic, duty, and a scheme that must be brought to completion. On the other is a beautiful memory I’ll keep with me always. But in the past it must stay.
The applause dies down, and the couples separate to find new partners. Elliot advances toward me. “Gemma—”
“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Rochester,” I say with calm and poise, my false persona wrapped tight around me. My smile, however, is genuine, and my heart is at peace. Or as peaceful as it can be with such a bittersweet ache at its core. “I have much work to do, and I will get on with it now.”
Before he can argue, I turn to leave. A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow it down, vaguely aware of the feel of his eyes burning into me with every step I take away from him. Their heat lingers long after I’m lost in the crowd.
32
The night wears on, and I stay far from the dance floor, keeping to tasks that take me to the perimeter of the ballroom or other rooms altogether. I visit the footman, the servants, confirming all is going well for the evening. Then I make my rounds to the refreshments table, the parlor, finding everything in neat working order. Next, I check on Bertha and the cooks, ensuring supper is coming along in the kitchen, then oversee the final preparations for the dinner table. Since the dining room has been requisitioned for dancing, the break for supper will take place in a smaller, adjoining room.
I return to the ballroom only on occasion, to keep tabs on Elliot from afar. Although I’d rather keep my distance for the remainder of the evening, I’m prepared to intervene if needed. Thankfully, he appears perfectly capable of performing his duties without my assistance. I catch him in several conversations throughout the night, but most importantly, he dances with Imogen as planned. From the far end of the room, I watch as he turns Imogen around the dance floor in an exuberant polka. Her glowing smile shows no hint of resentment over being slighted over the first dance.
Good. Hopefully she’s forgotten by now. My eyes flash to Elliot’s face, taking in his composure, his smile. He seems comfortable, happy even. Is that how he looked when he danced with me? In the moment, it felt like so much more.
