Margaret’s pulse raced. Not from exertion, but from proximity and the way he gazed at her. Like she was the only person in the room. Like the rest of the world had faded away and there was only this—his hand at her waist, her fingers curled around his, the space between them shrinking with every turn.
“You’re good at this,” she breathed.
“I’m following you.”
“Then I’m good at this.”
“You are.” His voice had gone rough. “You’re remarkable.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll believe you.”
“Good. Believe me.” His thumb traced a small circle against her ribs. Just once. Just enough to make her gasp. “I meant every word at dinner, the truth thing. I want to know you. The real you. Not the widow everyone expects you to be.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then tell me. Make me understand.”
The music shifted. Slowed. They should have stepped apart and maintained proper distance.
Neither of them moved.
No more lies.
“I’m not who they think I am,” she said quietly. “The devoted widow. The grieving girl. I barely knew my husband. Three conversations formed our entire marriage before he left.” The words came out in a rush. Relief and shame tangled together. “So no, I’m not heartbroken. I’m just… tired. Of pretending. Of performing. Of being what everyone needs me to be.”
His hand flexed against her waist. “Then stop.”
“I can’t?—”
“Just for tonight.” He pulled her closer, definitely too close for propriety. She felt the heat of him through her dress. “Just for this dance. Be Margaret. Not Lady Margaret. Not the widow. Just you.”
Something cracked open in her chest. “I don’t know how.”
It was all too new, like a chapter she’d skipped between her hasty vows and widowhood. She should have had a marriage, a relationship… but there had been no time.
“Start with this.” His eyes held hers with warmth and impossible kindness. “Are you happy right now? In this moment?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then that’s enough.”
The music ended.
Neither of them stopped moving.
Around them, couples began to separate. To bow and curtsy and return to their positions along the walls.
Margaret and the duke stood in the center of the floor, still holding each other, both breathing harder than the dance warranted.
“We should—” She couldn’t finish the thought.
“We should,” he agreed, but he didn’t let go.
“People are staring.”
