“On the contrary,” she says, her clever grin lifting her lips once more, “I think you might know him better than any of us.”
Several hours later,I’m lost in the pleasure of my art. I’m alone now, Briony, Angela, and Tilly having left long ago, and only have my sketchbook and canvas for company. I didn’t bring my easel, so my canvas lies over a spare tablecloth on the floor. Several sheets of paper are strewn around me, featuring every angle I’ve sketched the ballroom from. Once I settled on an angle I liked best, I began a clean sketch on the canvas. Now I glance from the sketch to the room, dreaming up what colors I might use once I begin the painting stage back home. Cerulean blue here. Cobalt violet there. Titanium white mixed with yellow ochre to highlight the glow of the?—
“I thought I might find you here.” Monty’s voice has me leaping in place. I didn’t hear him enter the room or notice when he leaned against the nearby column.
I set down my graphite and shift on my knees to face him, smoothing my wrinkled skirt to no avail. I probably should have changed from my day dress into my casual attire, but I was too excited to get started after my art supplies arrived. After that, I forgot what I was wearing entirely and hiked my skirt to my knees, smearing graphite along the way. Yet there’s no reason to be self-conscious around Monty. Especially since he’s equally as unkempt as I am right now.
My gaze sweeps over him. His hair is even more mussed than usual, his cravat absent, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his shirt half tucked and open at the collar. His cheeks are flushed and his eyelids are heavy. He looks very much like someone who just rolled out of his lover’s bed. Wait…did he? Was Thorne’s stag party of an indecent nature after all?
A strange sensation tightens in my chest, followed by a pinch of fiery hot rage.
He straightens, pushing off the column as his brow knits into a furrow. “What’s that angry little look for? Are you upset I didn’t come sooner?”
I blink, smoothing my expression as best I can. I hadn’t realized I’d worn my emotions so plainly on my face. “Look? What look?”
He saunters over to me. “I came as soon as the party ended. What a fucking chore. I had no idea being dubbed best man meant I had to do everything Thorne said. I was practically his waiter and jester. Can you believe he made me dance shirtless on a table? It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it, which is why Thorne insisted, but it was certainly the first time I’ve done it sober.”
My rage melts out of me. That’s why he’s in such a disorderly state? Because he had to strip for his friend? A grin curves my lips. “Wish I’d seen that.”
“I bet you do. You’d have laughed or savored every second to draw later. Probably both.”
“You didn’thaveto do it, though, did you? You could have refused. I don’t thinkbest mancomes with a binding bargain, even if your friend is half fae.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Perhaps, but it was his stag party, and this is his wedding weekend. The least I can do is make a fool of myself and dance like an idiot.”
I’m reminded of what Briony told me. I keep my voice nonchalant as I ask, “But don’t you hate dancing?”
“Not particularly. Though this wasn’t exactly dancing, it was merely me shaking my ass and—ooooh.” He nods, a glint of realization in his eyes. “Briony told you, didn’t she?”
I give him a sheepish smile.
“Of course I told her I hated dancing when we were engaged. She loves it, and I needed her to hate me thoroughly.”
“So you don’t hate dancing? Because you danced with me one time, and I’d feel bad if you’d hated it all along?—”
He steps forward and thrusts his hand toward me. “Come on.”
I stare at his open palm. “What?”
“Just take it. Let me show you how much I hate dancing.”
I frown, then reluctantly place my palm in his. All at once, he pulls me up. As soon as I’m on my feet, he places his other hand at the center of my back and begins skipping to the side. A burst of laughter leaves my lips as I stumble to mirror his movements. We skip and turn onto the empty dance floor, our steps echoing through the room.
“What are we doing?” I ask, my voice strangled with mirth.
“The gallopade.”
“Yes, but why?”
“To show you how much I hate dancing.”
“This doesn’t feel like hate.”
“That’s because it isn’t. You see, Ilikedancing. With you.” Our eyes lock as he speaks. My heart takes a tumble, and my feet nearly do too before he shouts, “The waltz!”
He leads me into a slower tempo, allowing me to catch my breath. We step and turn in a circle, light on our feet, and I realize this is the dance we shared at the gala so many months ago.
“We were clumsy last time,” I say, recalling how often I stepped on his feet.
