Page 95 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

And it appeared Azriel had no intention of letting him forget, for he slipped his hand down her arm, slow and purposeful, to grasp her hand without looking away and said, “Dance with me.”

She bit her lip. The very thought of not only stumbling through a dance, and Azriel stumbling as well, made her heart sink from its lofty heights. Two weeks as Lord Governor. When did he have time to learn the steps?

“We do not have to,” she whispered as the first note of the music struck and he started to the floor.

Azriel did not respond. Instead, he squeezed her fingers once and pulled her in close, free hand on her back as he lifted their clasped pair into the air. The perfect starting position.

Within a beat, they began. Azriel guided her through the steps of the waltz with uncanny ease. She watched their feet—his sure and rhythmic, hers delayed and hesitant. Like every other ball, Ariadne thanked her only saving grace—the length of the dresses Caersan women wore.

“How?” She dragged her gaze from the floor to him.

Azriel’s eyes glittered with mirth, and his mouth twisted with a hidden grin. “You forget I have overseen quite a few of these dances by now.”

“And you learned just from watching?”

“No.” He chuckled, shaking his head before spinning her out, then back in. As their hands connected again, he continued, “My mother taught me as a young boy.”

Strange to know nothing of this man’s family when she was set to be bound to him for life. With Loren, she knew his parents and brother—intimately. Knew his past and future hopes. Azriel was a stranger from a strange part of Valenul with strange connections to the Society. He held a well of secrets for her to dip into and satiate her thirst for discovery.

Because somehow, despite her usual reservations about anything new or unknown, it sent a thrill through her. This man she had grown to love surprised her at every turn. It only made her love him more.

All around them, more dancers took to the floor. Their evaluation of Azriel’s skills complete, many deemed it appropriate to join. Caersans courting the young, available women sought out their first partners and swept them in broad circles.

They turned and turned again, and for the first time that Season, Ariadne fell into a comfortable rhythm. Her shoulders fell away from her ears, and her feet found the steps they once knew—if poorly. To be held in the arms of a fiancé she had chosen made all the difference.

And as the music crescendoed, the room fell away. The other dancers and party guests ceased to exist. Only the arm holding her close and the solid, muscular body brushing against her mattered.

When she turned her face up to him, the air caught in her lungs. His eyes blazed into her, and she knew by the intensity of his gaze that he had not looked away since they began their dance. Heat pumped through her veins, licking through her chest and straight to her core. It settled heavily there, and she stumbled, her thighs pressing together.

If she thought his look had been intense before, it could not compare to the dark shift in them at that moment. His nostrils flared, and she suddenly wished she had taken the time to read more factual books about fae. She knew enough to remember their keen sense of smell.

Keen enough to smell her arousal, it would seem.

“Ariadne…” Azriel said, his low voice hoarse as he dropped all pretense and formalities. He closed his eyes for a long moment, blindly spinning her out, then back as the final note struck home. They snapped back open, and he dipped her low, then righted her before releasing his hold and stepping back to bow.

She almost forgot to curtsy. “Yes, my Lord?”

Inhaling deeply, he raised his brows at her and held out his arm. “Nothing at all.”

Warmth flushed her cheeks as she accepted his arm and fell into place beside him. He moved with slow purpose, conscious of her smaller gait and how the skirt hindered each step. The guests parted for them both like a river splitting around a boulder.

“Lord Caldwell!” A paunchy Councilman with dark red hair extended a hand.

Azriel accepted without releasing her arm, stepping into the formal embrace while ensuring she did not get forgotten. “Lord Theobald, a pleasure to see you again. I must extend my sincerest appreciation for your support last night.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Theobald said with a grin that flashed longer fangs than Ariadne had ever seen. “Eastwood Province must band together as a united front. My house will always support the Caldwells.”

Azriel inclined his head. “You honor me.”

“Pish posh.” Theobald waved a dismissive hand. “When will you return east?”

With a quick glance at Ariadne, Azriel took a half-step back. “May I introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Ariadne Harlow. Miss Harlow, Lord Oren Theobald is a Councilman from Eton.”

Ariadne curtsied. “A pleasure, Lord Theobald.”

“The Golden Rose. A pleasure indeed.” Theobald extended a hand, and she laid her free palm in his so he might kiss her fingers. “So it is you who shall be keeping our Lord Governor from his seat, I take it?”

Again, she flushed, but Theobald laughed merrily and winked at Azriel as though to say it was all a joke.

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