He watched her carefully. “It seems to have worked.”
She scowled. “It shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t be here. Our arrangement was supposed to bolster my reputation. This threatens to do the opposite.”
“I would never allow that.”
She met his gaze. “I wish I could believe that.”
He stilled, not liking the words. “What does that mean?”
She sighed. Looked away, then back. “You left me,” she said, the words small and soft and devastating. “You walked away.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me the truth.” He thought she laughed at that, but he couldn’t be sure – the gardens were too dark and he could not see her eyes. “And then I realized that you cannot trust me blindly. That you have been devastated before. You keep your secrets to keep her safe. You keep his secrets to keep her safe.” He paused. “I won’t ask you for them anymore.”
She came to him then, stepping forward, and he was overcome by the nearness of her… the smell of her… vanilla and cream. He wanted to pull her toward him and make her his here, in the darkness. For what might be the last time.
He wanted his two weeks.
He wanted his lifetime.
But he could not have those things, so instead, he would settle on this night.
“Why don’t you know how to dance?” she asked.
The question came from nowhere, and it shocked the hell out of him. He would have expected a question – something about his own secrets. His own past. Something about Tremley. About Cynthia. But he had not expected such a simple query. Such an all-encompassing one.
He should have, of course.
He should have expected her to ask the most important question first.
Of course, he answered it, his discomfort with the subject matter – with all the bits and pieces of his life that somehow were connected to it – making him more hesitant than usual. He started simply. “No one ever taught me to dance.”
She shook her head. “Everyone learns to dance. Even if you never learn the quadrille or the waltz or any of the dances they dance in there” – she waved at the house – “someone dances with you.”
He thought back. Tried again. “My mother danced with my father.”
She did not speak, letting him tell his story. Letting him find his way. It was a memory long forgotten, dredged from some dark corner where he’d sent it to die. “My father died when I was four, so it is a surprise I even remember it.” He paused. “Perhaps I don’t remember it. Perhaps it’s a dream, not a memory.”
“Tell me,” she said.
“We lived in a cottage on a large estate as tenant farmers. My father was large and ruddy-cheeked. He used to lift me in the air as though I were featherlight.” He paused. “I suppose I was to him.” He shook his head. “I remember him by the fire in the cottage, twirling my mother around and around.” He looked to her. “It wasn’t dancing.”
She watched him carefully. “Were they happy?”
He struggled to remember their faces, but he could remember the smiles. The laughter. “In that moment, I think they were.”
She nodded, reaching out for him, sliding her hand into his. “Then it was dancing.”
He clasped her fingers tightly. “Not like the dancing you do.”
“Nothing like the dancing we do. Our dancing is for show. For circumstance. A way to show our plumage and hopefully find favor.” She stepped closer, near enough that if he lowered his chin, he might graze her forehead with his kiss. He resisted the urge. “Your dancing was for fun.”
“I wish I could dance,” he whispered, as she looked up to him. “I would dance with you.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you wish.”
“By the fire in your home?” The whisper nearly slew him with memory and want.
“In another place. Another time. If we were other people.”
She smiled, sadness in the expression, and slid her left hand up to his shoulder, placing her right hand in his. “What about here? Now?” He wished they weren’t wearing gloves. He wished he could feel her touch as well as her heat. He wished a great many things as they moved, slowly, circling in slow time to the music spilling into the darkness.
After long moments, he pressed his lips to her curls and spoke. “I’ve watched you dance a dozen times… and I’ve been jealous of every single one of your partners.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“I have stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching you, Poseidon watching Amphitrite.”
She pulled back to look at him, tilting her head in question. He smiled. “I, too, know about Poseidon.”
“More than I do, apparently.”
He returned his attention to their movements. “Amphitrite was a sea nymph, one of fifty, the opposite of the sirens… the saviors of the sea.” They turned, and her face was cast in the glow of the ballroom. She was watching him, “On a night in late summer, the nymphs gather on the island of Naxos and danced in the surf. Poseidon watched.”
Humor flooded her gaze. “I imagine he did.”
He grinned. “Can you blame him?”
“Go on,” she urged.
“He ignored all the Nereids, save one.”
“Amphitrite.”
“Is this my story or yours?” he teased.
“Oh, excuse me, sir,” she replied.
“He wanted her desperately. Came out of the sea, nude, and claimed her for himself. Vowed to love her with the passion of the surf, with the depth of the ocean, with the roar of the waves.”