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And now she’d supplied another story to be passed around ballrooms about Lady Riven’s unfortunate eccentricities. Sighing, Margaret straightened her shoulders and rose above it. “Would you please direct me to the nearest retiring room?”
Apparently, she would have to make good on that planned excuse after all.
By the time Margaret’s hair was once again respectable enough for public viewing, she was wild with impatience to return to the ballroom. When she stepped through the final door, though, she came to an instant halt, her mouth falling open as she surveyed the scene before her.
“What in the world...?”
As the orchestra played a jaunty quadrille, lines of dancers formed and re-formed smoothly across the center of the room. They laughed and smiled as their jewelry glittered in the light of the giant chandeliers, like performers on a stage. The rest of the attendees, gathered in a long ring around the dancefloor, chatted and sipped champagne together in a perfectly ordinary, amicable din. As Margaret shook her head in disbelief, her gaze landed on her own king, who stood nearby, chuckling heartily over some remark from the regal-looking lady beside him.
Had everyone actually forgotten that shocking, world-upending waltz? She’d only been gone for a quarter of an hour!
As far as she could tell, no one’s shoes looked any different, either.
She couldn’t have simply imagined it all...could she?
Instinctively, her free hand closed around the reticule that still hung from her left arm. The telltale solidity of the metal leaf inside made her shoulders slump with relief.
It was real. She hadn’t imagined any of it...so why did no one else in this crowded ballroom seem even slightly discomposed by the occurrence?
Pressing her lips together, she started towards the orchestra. They, at least, should have some useful information.
The conductor was a small man with a truly stupendous waxed mustache who beamed and half-danced in place as he worked, his entire focus on the musicians before him. Margaret finally managed to meet his gaze as he straightened from a flamboyant bow to the room at large at the end of the quadrille. While new couples flooded onto the dance floor to replace those who were leaving, she hurried forward, taking advantage of the temporary lull.
“Sir! If I might have a moment of your time?”
“Most gracious lady. How may I be of assistance?” He bowed to her with even more flourishes than he had offered the room at large. “Did you have a particular musical request? I’m afraid the dances have already been set for tonight by particular command of our royal host. I cannot make any alterations now.”
“What about that extraordinary waltz?” she asked. “Did the emperor choose that as well?”
“That...” His smile tightened as he straightened, his gaze shifting away from hers. “May I ask which particular waltz you mean?”
Margaret stared at him. “You must know which one. The supernatural—”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean,” he said firmly, “and it is time for the next dance to begin.”
Frowning, Margaret glanced over her shoulder. “Not all of the dancers have assembled yet,” she reported. “So, surely—”
But he was already raising his arms high, the plain black baton in his right hand acting like an electric force upon the waiting orchestral musicians. Music burst through the air, loud and celebratory, overwhelming her protest until she was finally forced to retreat, simmering. When the dance finally finished, nearly ten minutes later, he kept his face firmly tilted away from her and began an urgent conversation with the first violinist.
Margaret clamped her mouth shut to hold back a growl so feral that it would remove even the last lingering doubts in anyone’s heads about her unfitness for society.
“My Lady Riven.” A warm, familiar presence stepped up behind her. “Is your next dance free?”
“For you, always.” Turning around, she let out the last of her held breath in a weary sigh. “But only you. Tonight, I am utterly fed up with the rest of the world!”
“My poor darling.” Tucking her outstretched hand into his arm, Lord Riven led her towards the dance floor, through the crowd of other guests. His attitude of calm confidence held none of the coldly effective aura of intimidation cast earlier by the imperial equerry. Still, between his admirably broad shoulders and his impressive height, the path he cleared was far more comfortable than any Margaret could have created. “Fortunately, this next dance is another waltz,” he said as they emerged on the other side, “so you won’t have to converse with anyone else throughout.”
“For which we can all be thankful,” she muttered sourly.
He chuckled softly at her words as they took their places on the floor and waited for the music to begin. When the orchestra finally struck up the lively new waltz, he drew her into his arms and she melted into him, infinitely grateful to have an excuse for that public embrace.
From the first moment she’d seen him at their unexpected wedding, now over a year ago, she’d recognized that her husband’s big, graceful body was perfectly designed for fighting and for dancing...and oh, did she enjoy being proven right once more. Dancing in his arms made all her years of forced lessons finally worthwhile. For the first time all night, she felt the deep contentment of knowing she fit exactly where and as she was.
Even she knew better than to publicly lean her cheek against his chest when anyone else could see them, but she luxuriated in every intimate moment as the decadently romantic music swept them smoothly across the floor, warm and close together. Lulled by that closeness and the beauty of the music, she could almost forget every trouble of the night...until he spoke again.
“Tell me everything that’s plagued you,” he said into her hair as they glided through another turn, “and then I’ll regale you with my own woes before we return to the fray.”
“What woes?” All comfort vanished immediately, and Margaret jerked her head back to glare in furious defense at the room around them. “Was someone horrible to you?” If any of those gossips had dared be rude to him...
