The words sent a jolt through Lily, making her pause with her hand outstretched toward her door. “Who said anything about breaking things off?” She couldn’t imagine doing that. Or wanting to do that. Her questions, and Hall’s doubt, weren’t loud enough to drown out the allure of another hour in Zivon’s company. Of hearing the beautiful way he shaped his vowels, of watching him take in the world around him. Of seeing his thoughts go deeper and deeper the longer they talked. Of cajoling him into teaching her a common phrase in a language she didn’t know.
What would a week be without learning how to say “pass the salt” in Slovakian or Bulgarian or Portuguese?
Ivy opened her door for her, presenting the chamber with a flourish of her hand. “Things can’t go on as they are forever, you know. You either move forward or you give him leave to pursue someone else. He isn’t exactly fresh from university. He’ll want a wife sooner or later.”
At least she didn’t go on to point out that Lily wasn’t exactly in her first season anymore either. She set her bag on a padded chair and moved toward her dressing screen, where tonight’s evening gown was already hanging, ready for her. “Aren’t you the one who was waxing poetical about enjoying the ‘now’ of a courtship?” She paused at the screen, wiggling her shoulders upon remembering the day dress she was currently wearing had buttons down the back.
Her sister obligingly slipped the buttons free. “But if he does share more, as you clearly wish he would, that would change things. The truth of his past will either push you away or draw you closer. But it will, without a doubt, change things.”
A miniature circus sprang to life in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure if it was from fear or anticipation. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re probably right.”
“Of course I am. I’m wise, you know.” The last button must have been free, because Ivy gave her a little nudge. “You may, in fact, refer to me as O Glorious Sage. Or perhaps—”
“Enough!” Laughing, Lily slithered out of her day dress and reached for the evening gown. It was a few years old, but she’d only worn it a handful of times, so it still looked practically new.
She emerged from the screen a minute later, smoothing the fabric into place. “I still wish we’d had pockets put in this.”
She couldn’t help but grin because she knew Ivy would roll her eyes. “It would have ruined the lines. You can’t always weigh your skirt down with a camera, you know. That’s why you’re carrying a bag.”
One that Ivy had presented her with a proud smile two weeks before. It was sturdy enough to hold her equipment, but it was also made of a beautiful brocade that perfectly complemented her dress. “It is indeed.” She sat at her dressing table and reached for her hairbrush. “All right. I suppose I’m ready for you to call Caroline in to do my hair.”
“I have an idea.” The words were whispered directly into Lily’s ear, still barely audible over the orchestra, even as fingers closed over hers. Her heart skipped, tripped. Zivon, of course—she’d know the voice anywhere.
But somehow the touch, unexpected as it was, felt far different than when he usually took her hand. “Why do you not put the camera down just for a few minutes, and we can dance?”
She didn’t dare turn her head much, given how close his face must be to hers. But she couldn’t resist a bit of a tilt so she could see his eyes. They glowed with a smile, brighter than she usually saw from him. That alone would have had her lowering her camera. Or, more accurately, swinging it around to snap a quick picture of him instead of the bride and groom.
He laughed and lowered the Kodak. “You surely have enough of those by now.”
“Never.” She smiled at the man who hovered a few inches away. He’d been more than patient with her duties this evening, never saying a word when she slipped away for a different angle of something, other than to ask her if he could help.
If he wanted to dance, she owed it to him. And didn’t at all mind the intrusion upon her assigned task, to be perfectly honest. She put the Kodak into her bag, tucked it out of the way, and put her hand in his so he could lead her onto the dance floor.
When he swung her around to face him with more flair than she’d expected, she laughed. “Why am I surprised that you like to dance?”
His brows lifted, better to showcase the glimmer in his eyes. “I do not know. My mother always said every good Russian should know how to dance. She taught us from the time we were boys.”
That she could imagine—a miniature Zivon, with that curl falling stubbornly onto his forehead, dancing with his mother. He’d have approached it seriously, almost mathematically. And she’d bet he hadn’t stepped on his matushka’s feet more than once. That grace of his was already making itself known within their first few revolutions of the waltz. “So can you do the Cossack dance?”
His laugh was quick, deep. “Do I look like a Cossack?”
“Hmm.” She made a show of looking him over. “Not to my way of thinking, but I’ve never met one. Perhaps they all have a charming curl to their hair that they try to deny and all move with the grace of a . . . a . . .” She lifted her brows. “What’s an animal of the Russian plains known for its graceful running?”
His lips twitched. “Reindeer?”
Another laugh bubbled up. “No. Not at all what I was thinking. Don’t you have leopards or something in Russia? Tigers, even?”
“We have. And I like this image much better.” He puffed out his chest, lifted his chin. “Zivon, the mighty tiger.”
At this rate, she’d giggle herself into tomorrow. “Zivon, the mighty dancing tiger.”
He widened his eyes in mock horror. “No, no. Tigers do not dance. If we are looking for a Russian dancing animal, it must be the bear.”
The image sent her into another peal. “Dancing bears are not graceful!”
“Shh. Do not say that.” He leaned close, as if imparting a great secret. “Their feelings are very sensitive. Everyone knows not to insult a dancing bear.”
He spun her around, his hand landing on her back again with unerring precision. She shook her head, smiling. “And did your mother hope to give you all the skills of a bear when she taught you to dance?”
Another twitch of his lips. This time a grin broke its way into the corners. “She was more set on the French dances, I confess.”
“As I suspected. Now.” She tilted her head closer to his. “We shall truly test your mettle when the orchestra takes a break. I overheard the bride’s sister-in-law saying that a few of them are forming a small ragtime band that will entertain us for about half an hour, and I happen to be an expert ragtime dancer.”
“I do not even know what this is. Ragtime?” He didn’t look intimidated at the thought of something new, though. His mother really must have taught him well.
She grinned. “You’ll see. The Americans brought it over with them. Apparently it’s all the rage across the pond.”
“Ah. Well, if it involves me dancing with you, I am certain to like it.”
Heavens. She couldn’t blame her rocketing pulse on the dance, not when he looked at her as he was doing now. “I have no doubt you’ll be king of the dance floor, Zivon the Mighty Tiger.”