When he put the opposite hand on her waist, she stopped breathing entirely, staring up into dark eyes that locked with her own. He was very close now. Too close and not close enough all at once.
“I think you are meant to touch my shoulder, Lady Ophelia,” he said softly, his voice rough. “And then we must move eventually.”
She blinked as she realized the first notes of the waltz had, indeed, already begun. She swiftly lifted her hand to his shoulder and ignored the ripple of muscle that followed as she did so. He stepped out, guiding her with no effort, a graceful gliding of feet and body.
There was such confidence in every step, and she found herself entirely trusting him to guide her. Oh, a man was always meant to lead in the dance, but that didn’t mean a lady shouldn’t protect herself on the floor. Half the men she’d danced with had careened her into others or stepped on her feet. She had to lead sometimes without looking like she was doing so.
But not with this man.
He said nothing as he maneuvered her. Not even a pleasantry. And since she felt entirely stunned into her own silence, his expression returned to the usual one he wore when he was around her. Unreadable except for flashes of what she had to believe was dislike.
He didn’t like her. She had known that from the first moment they met. And she didn’t need every person she met to like her. She had more than enough friends in her life. But even as she believed he didn’t feel anything for her but negativity, she also felt the draw of him. The tug of his gaze as he moved her around the floor. The flutter of…
Well, she would not label that flutter. She knew what it was. She’d felt it before, much to her own detriment and the pain of a great many others. That flutter would lead to nothing good. And in this case, it was entirely confusing.
A few more turns around the floor and the music faded. He released her waist so that she might execute a curtsey and he followed with a bow. Then he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her to the edge of the dancefloor. He released her and stood, still staring at her for a long moment.
Then he inclined his head. “Good evening, my lady.”
“G-Good evening,” she whispered back as he pivoted and walked away from her. He cast no look back—he just made his way through the crowd until he disappeared from view.
There was a light touch on her arm and she jumped as she pivoted to face whomever had approached. It was Priscilla, who had an odd look on her face. Concern mixed with…something else. Recognition of some kind, like she’d just solved a riddle.
“Good evening,” Ophelia said, and was surprised to find herself breathless. She forced a bright smile. “You look beautiful, of course.”
“As do you,” Priscilla said slowly. “Would you…would you like to take a turn on the terrace and talk to me about anything?”
Ophelia shifted. “I don’t know what you think I would like to talk about, but if you have something on your mind, I’m at your service, of course.”
She found herself glancing over her shoulder, but she did not find Grantham.
“Ophelia,” Priscilla said, this time more firmly.
Ophelia looked back at her. “What is it, dearest? You seem so concerned.”
“I suddenly am concerned,” Priscilla said. “You and the king—”
Ophelia raised a hand, not wanting Priscilla to continue that line of questioning at present. “Are just as we always have been. He thinks me foolish, I think him cold and unfeeling. It matters little. There are only a few weeks left in our acquaintance and then I shall rarely see him again.”
At that Priscilla’s expression crumpled slightly. “Or…or me.”
Ophelia swallowed hard. She’d been trying to avoid that subject as well. “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course that is a very sad fact. You will be in Athawick living the most wonderful happily ever after that will be better than any fairytale.”
“I hope so. Fairytales can be ghastly things.” Priscilla smiled, though there were tears in her eyes. “And I’m being maudlin, of course. I will come to London regularly, as I know Remi will wish to see his sisters. And you will come here.”
Ophelia nodded. “I shall, if you like. If the king will give his permission.”
She could see that inspired Priscilla to want to broach the subject of Grantham again, so she caught her friend’s hands in hers and laughed. “But since we only have a few weeks left in this visit, I propose that you and I dance.”
Priscilla let out a peel of laughter as Ophelia dragged her onto the dancefloor and into the middle of the lively jig that was being performed by the others. Her action did as she had hoped. It eased some of the sadness between them…and it utterly distracted Priscilla from whatever she had wanted to say about Grantham. About the dance that still confused Ophelia and made her stomach flutter in ways it ought not.
Ways it never could again. Confounding the man was one thing…but that…that was something else entirely.
Grantham could not take his eyes off of Ophelia as she spun about the dancefloor, hands clasped in Priscilla’s, head tilted back with joyful laughter. Of course, he had long determined the impossibility of taking his eyes off the woman at all.
Dancing with her had only made it worse. Solidified the very problem he had been trying to avoid: He wanted her.
He had wanted her from the first moment he walked into the parlor at Bleaking House and saw her standing at the fireplace with an expression of pure mischief on her beautiful face. How small his world had shrunk in that moment. How odd that he had been permanently changed by something so simple.
It was infuriating, really.
Of course, he was not the only one who watched her. The entire crowd did so at present, clapping along to the music, following Ophelia with their eyes. Like she was summer and everyone in the room wanted to be closer to the sun.
“How are you, dearest?”
Grantham turned slightly as his mother stepped up beside him, sliding her arm through his and giving a gentle squeeze.
“Fine as one can be, considering,” he answered, returning his attention to the dancefloor. The song had ended and Priscilla and Ophelia were making an enormous show of their bows to each other at the end. The crowd applauded their entertainment as they giggled off together toward where Remi stood, beaming without hesitation at it all.
Of course he could. He was free to be so much more than Grantham could hope for. In that moment, the jealousy was intense.
His mother took his hand, drawing his attention back to her. “I would love to…to talk to you, my love. To help you if I can. Will you talk to me? Talk to Dash?”
Grantham looked off into the distance a moment. His mother’s personal secretary, Dashiell Talbot, was the most trustworthy man he knew. His calm demeanor and wise counsel had been invaluable to the queen over the years. To Grantham, as well. And with his hesitations about his own courtiers still fresh in his mind…
He cleared his throat. “I do not know if anyone can help me, but I always appreciate your input. And his. So yes, we will find time when things have settled.”
“There will be some normalcy after our guests depart tomorrow,” his mother said.
“Almost all of them,” he grunted, hating that he yet again sought Ophelia in the crowd. Now she was standing off to the side of the orchestra, surrounded by admirers, both men and women. They jostled to be near her as she smiled and held court with just as much aplomb as any queen or princess of his country had done. Maddening.