Lily unclenched her teeth and took another sip of lemonade.
A low, warm voice materialized at her shoulder. “The musicians are preparing a waltz.”
Hugo stood beside her, his hand extended. The champagne was gone, and something sharper lived behind his eyes now, something attentive and purposeful that the gentlemen across the room would never have noticed beneath the easy charm.
Lily set down her glass and placed her hand in his.
He led her to the floor. The music began, and his hand settled at her waist with a steadiness that anchored her in place. She rested her fingers on his shoulder, and they moved into the first turn.
“You are tense,” he said.
“I am waltzing. It requires concentration.”
“It requires the opposite of concentration. It requires surrender.” His thumb shifted against her waist, a movement so slight it could have been accidental. It was not accidental. “Stop thinking about your feet. They know what to do.”
She forced herself to loosen her grip on his shoulder. The second turn came easier, and by the third, she had settled into the rhythm of his lead, her body responding to the pressure of his hand before her mind had time to intervene.
“Better,” he murmured.
“I was already competent.”
“You were already precise. Competence and precision are not the same as grace.” His gaze dropped to hers. “A waltz is a conversation, Lily. You are treating it like a debate.”
“I treat everything like a debate.”
“I have noticed.”
She almost smiled. She caught it in time and redirected her attention to a point over his shoulder, where the candlelight blurred the faces of the onlookers into a wash of pale skin and bright silk.
“Lady Whitmore said something to me earlier,” she said. “About your mother.”
Hugo’s hand tightened at her waist. The movement was involuntary, a single contraction of his fingers that lasted less than a second before he smoothed it away. If she had not been pressed close enough to feel the shift in his breathing, she would have missed it entirely.
“Lady Whitmore says many things.” His voice carried the same pleasant warmth, but something beneath it had cooled. “Most of them are not worth repeating.”
“She mentioned a tragedy. She said it marked you.”
Hugo guided her through the next turn. His steps did not falter. His expression did not change. But the ease had gone out of his shoulders, and the hand at her waist held her with a firmness that felt less like a dance and more like a man bracing himself against something.
“My m-mother died when I was young.” A stammer surfaced and vanished in the space of a syllable, so quickly that anyone else might have mistaken it for a catch in his breath. Hugo’s jaw tightened with emotion. He guided her through the next turn without missing a step. “It was a difficult time for my family.”
Lily waited. He offered nothing more.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to pry.”
“You meant exactly to pry. It is one of your more endearing qualities.” The warmth returned to his voice, but it satdifferently now. “My family history is not a cheerful subject, Lady Lily. If you are looking for a tragic backstory to explain why I am the way I am, I am afraid you will find it rather more complicated than Lady Whitmore’s parlor version.”
“I was not looking for an explanation.”
“Were you not?”
The question was quiet enough so that only she could hear it. She met his eyes and found something there she had not seen before. Not the charm. Not the teasing. Something guarded and watchful, the look of a man who had learned long ago to keep certain doors locked and was deciding, in this moment, whether the woman in his arms was the kind of person who would try the handle.
“No,” she said. “I was not. But I would like to understand you better. If you would allow it.”
Hugo studied her. The waltz carried them past the windows, and the candlelight caught the amber in his irises and the fine scar along his left brow.
“Perhaps,” he said. “In time.”
