The good thing was that he finally admitted there was indeed something he and my parents were keeping from me about Sandro. The bad thing was that he wasn’t going to tell me what it was.
“I’ve had enough.” Lifting my chin, I pivoted towards the exit... and promptly tripped on my stupid skirts. How humiliating.
The marble tiles were getting closer as my body threatened to drop to the floor. But Rennie caught me before I hit them.
“Careful.” His lips brushed the shell of my ear.
A traitorous tingle started on my skin, even though the quick touch had surely been an accident.
“I don’t—” I forgot what I meant to protest about when I turned and found my face inches from Rennie’s.
The first thing I noticed was his nose had indeed been broken. A punch, perhaps, or maybe a fall. The second thing I noticed was his scent. It was fresh and soapy, as if he had just finished taking a bath. It had the no-nonsense quality that men, who were used to working with their hands and bodies, had.
Also, the fact he was squashing me against his impossibly hard body didn’t escape my notice. None of it changed the situation. He was lying to me. Or rather, he was keeping secrets from me.
I put my hands on his chest and pushed away from him. “I don’t want to dance anymore.”
“That’s a shame,” a man with a classy Oxford accent said from behind me. “Because I was about to ask you for a dance, miss.” The man flashed a smile that was pure elegance. His blond hair brushed against his cheeks when he bowed, and his sleek dinner suit barely creased. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Mr Edward Marston.”
I could only bob a curtsy on my unsteady legs. “Miss Monia Fitzwilliam.”
“Monia?” Edward straightened. “What an unusual, beautiful name.”
“It’s short for Sanctimonia.” I probably should stop clarifying it. If Monia sounded odd, Sanctimonia sounded ridiculous, but to his credit, Edward didn’t laugh.
“Fascinating,” he said in his lovely accent. “Would you care to dance?”
“Miss Fitzwilliam wishes to return to her cabin,” Rennie all but growled, stepping next to me.
I arched a brow at him. “So now I’m Miss Fitzwilliam?”
But Rennie wasn’t looking at me. His keen gaze was trained on Edward, who was returning the glare.
“I’d love to dance.” To break the staring contest, I offered my hand to Edward.
He beamed when he took my hand ever so gently. “Excellent.”
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” Rennie said through gritted teeth.
“I’ll see you later, Mr Steele.” I looped my arm around Mr Marston’s and glided towards the dancefloor, leaving behind a glowering Rennie.
Oh, Mr Marston was a skilled dancer. He guided me through the waltz with soft steps and elegant moves, knowing exactly when he needed to step to the left or twirl me around. He was a protective dancer without crowding me. Finally, I was enjoying the music and the dance without worrying about tripping. Rennie stood in a corner of the room, scowling at us. Served him right. If he’d only told me the truth.
As we danced, Mr Marston led me away from Rennie and towards the opposite side of the room, even though the dance routine dictated we should move in the other direction. In the manoeuvre, we bumped into another couple, a middle-aged lady with too many feathers in her hair and her stiff companion. Great. What had I said about him being a skilled dancer? Was it a curse that afflicted all the men on board the ship? Or was it me who brought bad luck?
“I beg your pardon,” Mr Marston said so charmingly the lady could do nothing but smile in return.
A pretty red-haired girl, who was dancing with a short man, smiled as we twirled close to them. “You’re the best dancers I’ve seen onboard so far,” she said. “So elegant.”
I gave her a nod. “Thank you.”
Mr Marston steered me further down the hall, casting glances at Rennie who was still standing in the same corner.
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” he whispered. His face contracted in a tense expression that wiped the smile from my face. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?” I craned my neck to glance at Rennie. Perhaps my eagerness to get rid of him had been a tad thoughtless. Uneasiness coiled in my full belly.
“I’m a friend of Sandrosarkbach,” Mr Marston said without preamble.
