“Me.”
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t look away.
“Then tell me to stop.”
Anna didn’t speak.
She couldn’t. Not just then.
The music continued, slow and steady, like the beating of a clock they no longer heard.
He didn’t look away. Not once.
“You don’t make it easy to think,” she murmured.
“I’m not trying to,” he said.
“Then what are you doing?”
His hand adjusted slightly at her waist, not improper, but firm, as they turned again.
“Wondering how long I’ll be allowed to stand this close to you.”
For a moment, she forgot the steps. Forgot the room. Forgot the dull ache of always holding herself together.
He steadied her without pause.
“Does this work on every woman?” she asked.
“Do you think I’ve used it on anyone else?”
“You must have.”
“I haven’t wanted to.”
Her eyes met his, sharp and startled.
He looked calm, too calm, but his voice was lower now, just for her. “Don’t pretend I’m the only one losing count of the turns.”
She wanted to argue. To laugh. To change the subject. But the words didn’t come.
Around them, the drawing room had grown quieter. The pianoforte continued, but softly. Somewhere across the room, a fan snapped shut.
The final turn slowed, their hands still joined. The room faded, but neither of them moved.
Henry leaned in, not improper, but close enough that his breath stirred the wisps of hair near her temple.
“I never quite recovered,” he said quietly, “from the last time you caught me off guard.”
He didn’t elaborate because he didn’t need to.
Anna’s lips parted, but no reply came. The memory rose fast and sharp, memories of the firelight in his room, the rush of daring, the press of her lips to his before she could talk herself out of it, the heat that flooded her completely.
Her gaze met his.
“Nor did I,” she murmured, before stepping back.
CHAPTER 11
