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“Lord Cyrus Drake,” repeated DuMèlier. “Where are you, my Lord? Lord Drake?”

Cyrus was trapped, and he knew it. Sighing, he turned. “Over here.” Making his way through the crowd, he approached the machine. “I’m Drake,” he said calmly.

“You have been matched, my Lord,” smiled DuMèlier. “And here she is.”

Standing as calm as he, head high, tilted slightly as she looked at him, Lady Maelin of Theryn nodded. “Good evening, Lord Drake.”

She made no move towards him, so he nodded and walked past DuMèlier and the machine to stand in front of her.

His bow was respectful. “Good evening, my Lady.”

She cleared her throat. “Since we are the last two to be matched, I believe it is our duty to begin the next dance.”

He saw the pulse throbbing in her throat and knew she was as shocked as himself, so he dredged up a polite smile as he held out his hand. “It would be an honour.”

She placed hers on top of it. “You are most gracious.”

Her fingers were as cold as ice.

Chapter Eight

How in the Hellforge had this happened?

Maelin’s thoughts whirled around her head as her skirts rippled around her ankles. He was leading her to the dance floor, calmly taking his place in front of her in the very centre. She could almost hear the whispers she knew would be running like wildfire throughout the ballroom, just as her own questions ran rampant through her mind.

Who was he?

Where was he from?

Taking a breath, she cleared her mind and raised her head as they stood alone, waiting for the first notes of the dance.

Her heart thudded when she remembered. It was to be a Velarine.

This choice, she knew, could be laid directly at the feet of her aunt. Mentally she rolled her eyes at herself. As hostess and guest of honour for this evening, she...Maelin...would be the last person to choose her mate. Whoever he was, he would have to have this dance with her.

Up to this moment, she had made sure to dance with gentlemen with whom she was already acquainted, or those she knew were happily married. She’d made a point of learning who these gentlemen were before the ball began. No fortune-hunters, or lustful admirers. She had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with them.

But now? She was trapped. Forced by circumstances to stand beside a man she didn’t know, resting her hand on his, awaiting the first bars of what was often known as the “Touch Me” dance.

Sensual, sliding notes, fast heart-beat rhythms—the Velarine was often referred to as an excellent dance for a man to seduce a woman while standing up and with his clothes on.

Maelin had learned the steps, danced it several times over the years, and never been seduced. But still...

“You are familiar with the steps, my Lord?” She flashed him a quick glance.

“I am, my Lady.” He moved his head slightly in acquiescence, his dark eyes fixed on hers.

For a second or two she could have sworn there was a glint of gold in those mysterious depths, but then the music began and she focused on her steps.

The lightest touch of his hand and they circled each other at arm’s length, echoing the gentle rolling notes of the resonance-clavier, slowly moving their hands up each other’s arms, gently closing the distance between them.

As the beat accelerated, they circled faster as they neared each other, ending in a final clinch, a clash of drums and barely a breath between them.

Slowly circling, Maelin found herself eye to eye with his chin, and very aware of the other parts of her body that were now pressed firmly against his.

Palm against her spine, he held her close...very close, always circling, yet keeping her footsteps in time with his. They matched, she realised. She hadn’t spared a thought for minding her steps thus far. He seemed to know by instinct how to move with her, not around or against her, just with her.

The next change arrived, a reverse turn, releasing one hand and now moving back to back for a few bars, before returning to face each other.