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“How generous.”

“I am overflowing with restraint.”

She gives me a look that suggests she doubts this immensely. Still, she lets me lead her from the ballroom.

We slip behind a curtain near the western archway, through a narrow corridor lit by sconces and smelling faintly of wax, roses, and old stone. The music softens behind us and the world narrows to the sound of her skirts, her breathing, my own pulse behaving foolishly beneath my ribs. I guide her into a shadowed alcove overlooking the gardens. Moonlight spills through tall windows, silvering the edges of her face. For once, Olive does not look like the Widow. She looks like a woman who has spent too long being watched and too little time being held. The realization steals some of the mischief from me and she notices.

“What?” she asks. I shake my head.

“No clever answer?” She jests while softly pushing the tip of her elbow into my side. The contact makes my synapses come alive. I need more.

“Nothing clever at the present,” I retort.

“How alarming.” She raises her eyebrows and studies the scenery around us.

“Devastating, really.”

Her mouth softens. I step closer, slowly enough that she can retreat if she wishes. She does not.

“Olive,” I say.

Her name feels dangerous in my mouth. Like prayer. Like confession. Like a blade pressed to the tongue.

“I did not do all of this merely to trick you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

I look at her. At the garnet silk. The black lace. The proud lift of her chin. The exhaustion beneath her eyes she thinks no one sees. I must restrain my hands from reaching to cup her face. “Because everything in your life has been performance, darling,” I say. “Every smile is measured, marriage orchestrated. Every room entered with a purpose and every man handled before he could handle you.”

Her expression shutters. I step no closer.

“I wanted to give you one evening where the performance could end.”

Silence. Then, softly she asks, “And what would remain?”

“You.” Her throat works at my answer. Intrigue across her face.

I do not touch her. For all my sins, for all my dramatics, for all my wicked little plans, this moment requires something I am not often known for. Patience.

“Come,” I say softly. “Let me show you what true comfort feels like.”

Her eyes search mine. “For what price?”

“No price.” I hook my arm, gesturing for her to reach for me.

“Everything has a price.” Her tone is suspicious.

“Not this, darling. Never this.”

She laughs once, brittle and disbelieving. I smile faintly, “I know. It sounds absurd.”

That almost earns me another smile. She glances toward the ballroom, “And your guests?”

“May rob each other blind for all I care.”