Page 5

The severe color palette emphasized his imposing height and athletic frame. Yet the effect was softened by the unruly chestnut waves that escaped his queue. Beatrice’s gaze traced over the angles of his face - the sharp cut of his jaw, the patrician slope of his nose.

Mr. Lewis moved through the crowds with understated confidence, nodding in acknowledgment yet aloof from the frivolity around him. While others wore flashy silks and feathers, his attire was simple. Still, he drew the eye, seeming to exist on a different plane than the superficial masqueraders. As if, despite condescending to join their revelry, he did not truly belong.

Just as they reached the dancefloor, the orchestra struck the chords of the waltz. Mr. Lewis stepped closer and took her hand in his, while his other arm snaked around her waist.

Beatrice held her breath, gooseflesh covering her skin.

Mr. Lewis took a step forward, and Beatrice stumbled back. He paused before trying again, and Beatrice froze in his arms.

“I thought you wanted to dance,” he said, sounding quite bored or disappointed, perhaps both.

Beatrice grimaced. “I can’t see…” He was close now, only a foot away, so she could see his face, but it was the only thing she could see. The couples whirling around them were just dark shadows to her, the flickering candle lights were just dancing dots—a distraction. She had insisted on having this dance, and now she was the one unable to perform it.

He frowned. “You can’t see anything?”

“I can see you. But I can’t see anything around us. I can’t see the other couples moving. How far or close they are to us. This was a mistake.” She relaxed her arm and turned, trying to leave the circle of his arms.

Instead of letting her go, he flung his arm around her waist, pulling her up against him. “Then look at me,” he said softly. “Look into my eyes and follow my lead.”

Beatrice looked around at her blurry surroundings before returning her gaze to his and giving a small nod. Mr. Lewis relaxed his hand on her back and stepped forward, leading her confidently in the dance.

Beatrice took deep breaths as she tried to regain her composure. Her heart was racing, her hands sweating inside her gloves, but she kept following his lead, twirling around the ballroom.

After a few tense steps, Beatrice finally relaxed in Mr. Lewis’s arms. He was an accomplished dancer, she realized. She felt comfortable in his arms as he led her effortlessly around the ballroom, never hesitating, never wavering.

This wasn’t the first time they had danced, she remembered suddenly. Only a few weeks ago, during the last ball of Gage’s house party, right after her betrothal to Viscount Gage had been announced and when everyone expected the first dance of the bride and groom-to-be, the viscount suddenly and inexplicably left the room, leaving Mr. Lewis to dance in his stead.

At that moment, Beatrice had been too distressed to enjoy the dance with Mr. Adam Lewis. Now, she relaxed in his arms and let herself be led by a strong but graceful man.

The fact that she didn’t see anything beyond his face was actually a benefit rather than a hindrance. The only thing she needed to concentrate on was the subtle movements of his arms as he led her in the dance, twirling them around other couples. The lights flickered and blurred in the background, and Beatrice felt as though they were the only people in the room.

Dancing.

In her mind, she painted her own picture of the setting. She envisioned romantic candlelights and elegant decorations as soft music filled the air.

It was almost as perfect as in her naive dreams.

Perhaps she wasn’t dancing with her perfect gentleman who would fall in love with her and save her from her inevitable, gruesome marriage. But he was a gentleman. A rather handsome and young gentleman at that. He was kind and strong and—

Beatrice tripped over her feet, and Mr. Lewis caught her against his chest. Beatrice became aware of the scent of his cologne, sandalwood mixed with tobacco and male musk. She took a deep breath, frozen, staring into his eyes. The entire situation—him holding her closely in his arms, them staring into each other’s eyes, her drinking in his scent—must have clouded her reason. Because she was acutely aware of her face moving closer to his, her lips parting on a breath, and—

Mr. Lewis abruptly let her go, and she stumbled back. Only then did she realize that the music had stopped, and the dance was finished. Beatrice blinked, trying to regain her composure as her cheeks burned in shame.

What was she thinking? Was she really about to kiss a random gentleman at a masquerade? She bit her lower lip so hard that she tasted the salty tang of blood.

Mr. Lewis’s blurry form bowed before offering his arm. “I held up my end of the bargain,” he said. “It is time for you to leave the masquerade.”

Chapter 2

Beatrice was quickly transported from her fairytale land to reality with those few sharp words.

For her, the night was over.

She took Mr. Lewis’s arm and allowed him to escort her out of the hell and into her carriage. He handed her inside, and as she turned to say her farewell, she was surprised to note that Mr. Lewis had no intention of leaving her. He settled onto the seat across from her and rapped the roof of the carriage with his walking stick.

“You’re coming with me,” Beatrice stated rather than asked as she took off her ornate mask.

The carriage jolted to a start, and she fell forward, her arms outstretched. She caught herself against Mr. Lewis’s knees, her fingers biting into his flesh. Her entire body flushed with heat. She had never had the pleasure—she shouldn’t have used the word pleasure, perhaps opportunity?—to touch a man below his waist. The feeling was rather conflicting. Mr. Lewis quickly grabbed her by the arms and helped her straighten in her seat.