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To stop looking at her the way he did.

To stop making her feel the things he made her feel.

To stop making her dream beyond her station.

“Yes, you have,” he said softly, and Mei looked up at him again.

The hurt from her rejection was clear in his eyes, and she bit her tongue against the immediate apology that sprang to her lips. She felt tears gather in reaction to his pain, which was not at all something that she’d wished to cause him, ever.

Tiffany said he loved her.

Why else would he have asked her to marry him? Why else would her refusal cause him pain?

“Do you see?” he asked, with a nod around them.

Mei huffed.

“You cannot control the reaction of the entirety of the ton.”

“I do not care what they think. I care what you think.”

“I think… I do not know what I think.” And their time was running out. A waltz only lasted for a few minutes at most. After this, if he kept dancing with her, he might as well propose in the middle of the room.

Two dances in a row was tantamount to a gentleman declaring his interest; three, and it was a proposal. Even if she was not a debutante, no one would be able to miss that message.

It would follow them to London, and Sebastian was correct about how it would increase her standing. As long as no one knew about their time together in the back sitting room, it would be assumed that the Duke of Bolton had fallen for the matchmaker… her refusal would be the making of her career. Even now, dancing with her like this, there would be some gossip and speculation, but as long as she continued on as though nothing had happened, everyone would assume the feelings were on his part.

That he’d singled her out during his sister’s house party.

That she was the one who stepped away.

The ton was so easily influenced. What one man wanted others immediately flocked to. And if it was a duke who desired her?

Mei could very easily attract a number of marital prospects on that alone.

But she did not want those.

She wanted him.

“I…” Her breath hitched as she tried to find a way to tell him that she wanted him to propose again. That she wanted him to say that he loved her, and that was why he wanted to marry her. That she wanted to accept.

The music was coming to an end. It was too late. Her chest tightened, and her fingers did as well, around his.

They swayed to a stop in the middle of the dance floor, and he did not step back. He did not move. His arm remained around her waist, his hand in hers, and he was looking down at her as though he was drinking in the sight of her.

“Sebastian,” she whispered. “The song has ended.”

“And?”

“You must let me go and find another partner to dance with.”

“No.”

The finality of the word was like a door closing. He was not just speaking of the dance, and she knew it. A flutter went through her chest. She could hear the whispers going around the room as the rest of the dance floor cleared. The panicked beating of her heart was as fast as a hummingbird’s wing.

“Sebastian,” she whispered again, more urgently this time, though she could not bring herself to actually attempt to pull away from him. Even though everyone was staring. She was beginning to understand his lack of caring. “You do not want to actually declare yourself⁠—”

“What I want is for you to stop telling me what I want,” he replied sharply, straightening up. His hand dropped away from her waist, and Mei’s heart thudded down to the vicinity of the floor. She started to step back, but she could not because the fingers of her other hand were still entwined with his. Sebastian dropped down to one knee.