“Yes,” he answered.
“Pattern?”
“Unbroken.”
She hid her irritation behind a serene expression. “Of course.”
A new waltz began. Soft strings, swelling like frost blooming across glass. The perfect cover.
Mingxi faced her with the courtesy of a foreign diplomat.
He extended his hand. “Lady Penelope.”
A second waltz with the same partner would ignite the Ton for weeks. Judging by the sudden swell of whispers curling around the ballroom—sharp, breathless, scandal-bright—it already had.
Fans snapped open like startled birds. Gloved fingers covered parted lips. Ladies angled closer to their companions, eyes glittering.
“The foreign lord again? Twice?”
“He barely danced at all last season.”
“She must be extraordinary.”
”Or terribly improper.”
“Look how he holds her.”
But the hall saw only the spectacle, not the strategy beneath it.
Penelope placed her hand in his.
Mingxi accepted it with a precision that made something low in her abdomen tighten—cool fingertips, steady guidance, an effortless pull into alignment. He didn’t look at her, not fully, but his presence radiated across the inches between them like a banked flame.
They joined the dance.
This waltz was smoother, darker in its undercurrent. Not romantic. There was no softness in his posture, no possessive claim. But there was intention. Coordination. A quiet, devastating focus.
Penelope was suddenly acutely aware of him: the warmth of his hand encircling hers; the sure, controlled strength in the line of his arm; the faint spice of his scent, unfamiliar and startlingly pleasant; the way candlelight clung to the angle of his cheekbone; the heat building between them despite the layers of silk and brocade.
She reminded herself—sternly—that this was a cover. But his nearness made warmth pool beneath her ribs anyway.
They moved in perfect unison, a silent code spoken through motion alone.
Turn—presence confirmed.
Pivot—route defined.
Shift—dancers shielding the watcher’s view.
Step—nearing exit.
Breath—steady.
Stillness—ready.
Her heart picked up, traitorously eager. “Garden,” she whispered.
He didn’t break rhythm, but a small, razor-sharp acknowledgment flickered across his expression—there and gone before anyone could name it.
