Keeping my gaze on the elegant couple dancing beneath the dreamscape, I splay my fingers, gently catching his, and lace them together. His hand stills, and I wonder if my touch was too bold. Then he adjusts his palm so he’s holding mine tighter. Firmer. He runs his thumb over my hand in the sweetest, softest caress. My lungs tighten, my heart fluttering, tumbling, like it might fall out of my chest.
“Daph,” he whispers, quiet enough for only me to hear, “dance with me?—”
“Miss Hartford.” Patrick rises from his chair and extends a hand. “Will you do me the honor of your first dance?”
I blink at him, then at the dance floor. Only now do I notice other couples have joined the bride and groom. My heart falls as I realize Monty was about to ask me the same question. He’d just been too quiet for Patrick to hear, our linked hands hidden from view. Our connection invisible.
Yet how can he not see it anyway? How can he not feel the pulse in the air between me and Monty? The magnetic force that nearly has me leaning into the man I?—
Monty’s grip loosens and he rises from his chair.
Relief washes over me as I expect him to correct Patrick, to inform him he’d already been in the process of asking me.
But he doesn’t.
“Excuse me,” he says, voice tight, then walks away.
My hand feels cold where his palm had been.
“Miss Hartford?” Mr. Wright’s smiling face wrinkles with a furrow. His hand remains extended toward me, awaiting my answer. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I say in a rush, my mind whirling to catch up with what’s happening. What needs to happen. Monty didn’t leave because he’s upset or jealous. He left to give me no qualms about accepting Mr. Wright’s offer. Because that is what I’m supposed to do. That is the purpose of this weekend’s lesson—demonstrating courtship during formal events.
I bite the inside of my cheek to fight the urge to run and hide. To refuse.
“I…yes, I will dance,” I say with feigned warmth. I can’t even bring myself to sayI’m honoredorI’m happy to. Because I can’t lie.
We stand at the edge of the dance floor until the waltz comes to an end. Then we join the other dancers preparing for the quadrille. My pulse rackets. I may have grown more comfortable dancing in this body than I was at the gala two years ago, but in other ways, I’m more anxious. Maybe it’s because Mr. Wright has made his interest in me so clear.
Or maybe it’s because I wish I was dancing with Monty instead.
We begin our dance, circling each other to a jovial beat, then skipping to the side. Mr. Wright smiles all the while, his eyes on me even when we separate to weave through the other dancers. I’m grateful for the part of the dance when we momentarily trade partners, my lungs easing with every inch of space I’m awarded from him. Why the hell do I feel this way? This man has been nothing but respectful. He’s handsome, and even though I’m not personally attracted to him at this moment, I’ve learned attraction can grow through a deeper acquaintance.
We return to each other, linking hands and skipping to the side again.
“You dance well,” he says.
I don’t know whether the compliment is genuine, and my first instinct is to make some wry jest about how he must say that to all the ladies. Then I recall that’s not who I am tonight. Tonight, I’m a well-behaved woman seeking a suitor. Even though Monty told me not to pretend to be someone I’m not, I don’t know how else to act with a man like this. Being myself feels worse than putting on a subtle act. So instead, I return his hollow praise. “As do you.”
“I hope it’s not too bold of me to secure your company in the next dance as well.”
I nearly trip over my feet but somehow maintain my composure. “Two dances? In a row?” I know what two dances with the same gentleman means. It is undoubtedly a show of interest on his part. I remember this well from my days as a debutante. One dance is polite. Two dances are a demonstration of romantic intent. Three is scandalous.
“If you’ll have me,” he says.
We separate, circling the other dancers in the square, and giving me another break from Mr. Wright’s attention. I nibble my bottom lip, my urge to flee stronger than ever. Then the most welcome sight comes into view—Monty at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes on me, stalking me like prey as I move between the dancers. Our eyes remain locked, even as I return to Mr. Wright and skip to the side with him. Monty watches me with undeniable hunger, and I’m suddenly taken back to the first time we danced, at the gala.
I hadn’t donned seelie form in public since my debut several years prior. I was equal parts giddy and terrified as I danced with a partner for the first time. I was surprised by how quickly my dance card filled up and how eager my partners were to dance with someone as unskilled as I was. It was a charity event, after all, and a full dance card meant an ample donation from a benefactor. Then I saw Monty, circling the floor, watching my every move. Until one of my partners held me a little too tight, his hands roving a touch too low. That’s when Monty charged up and cut in on the dance, but not before squeezing my partner’s shoulder like he’d mangle it.
A tableau of the past plays out now, and my pulse quickens as I expect it to repeat in full. For Monty to stride over at any minute and cut in. Or, at the very least, claim my next dance before Mr. Wright can remind me of the question he left hanging between us.
Yet Monty doesn’t. Instead, he hovers, watching us, running a hand through his hair, over his jaw, like it’s taking all his restraint not to come over to me.
But I want him to. So badly I do, and not even just to rescue me from Patrick Wright. I don’t need to be rescued this time. Mr. Wright is gentlemanly and kind. He’s just…
He’s not Monty.
Monty is the one I want to dance with. I want the ballroom empty save for just the two of us. I want to leap on tables and laugh while we waltz. I want to run through the rain and hold hands while mud soaks the hems of our clothes.
