Tyler strides in, freshly showered, sleeves rolled, collar open, hair still damp, and somehow manages to look like a cross between a Renaissance painting and a shampoo advert.
Infuriating.
And unnecessary.
He already looked annoyingly put-together when he left my room this morning, so what exactly required a whole second round of grooming?
He doesn’t apologise.
Doesn’t even glance my way.
Just strolls over as if he hasn’t left me stewing in a room full of gliding couples and five-hundred-year-old patriarchal nonsense, likehe’sthe main event and we’ve all just been waiting for him to arrive.
“Ready?” he says coolly, already taking my hand and pulling me towards the group like we’re about to be sacrificed to the entertainment gods.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re late.”
He glances down at me with a lazy smirk. “Wow, you can tell the time.”
“I was nearly paired up with Lord Moustache over there,” I mutter.
Tyler follows my gaze to the man in question, whose moustache looks like it’s being held together with Pritt Stick and sheer willpower.
“That would’ve been a disaster,” he says, eyes glinting. “Depending how sensitive you are.”
I give him a look. “Sensitive?”
He leans in, smirk full tilt. “That thing gets anywhere near your face during a turn and trust me, you won’t be making eye contact. You’ll be making a whole new set of noises.”
I blink. “Are you seriously suggesting…”
He grins wider. “Let’s just say one deep dip and he’d be waltzing his way to third base.”
I swat him. “Christ, you’re vile.”
“Shall we dance, milady?”
I resist the urge to trip him mid-bow.
We join the other couples in a wide circle as Peacock Pants sweeps dramatically to the centre of the room, claps twice, and strikes a pose that would make a matador jealous.
“Today you’ll be learning the Pavane,” he announces, voice booming. “A slow, elegant dance of grace, restraint, and pretending you like the person you’re paired with.”
A ripple of laughter moves around the room.
“Step, glide, turn,” he demonstrates, all long limbs and theatrical flourish. “And finish with a delicate hand movement that says, ‘I am refined and dignified,’ not ‘I am shooing away an unfortunate smell.’”
I give it my best shot and shuffle forward, turn half a beat too late, and nearly twat the poor woman next to me with my elbow.
“Elegant and restrained, Lady Hayley,” Tyler murmurs, barely suppressing a grin. “Not drunken swan.”
“Oh, piss off,” I mutter under my breath.
He holds out a hand again, and I reluctantly place mine in his, trying not to notice how warm it is. Or how his thumb brushes, just slightly, across the top of mine like he’s doing it on purpose. Which he probably is.
I copy Peacock’s steps, left foot, right foot, glide.
I manage a full half-turn before stepping squarely on Tyler’s boot with the force of a woman trying to crush a cockroach.
