Page 65 of Ardently Yours

Dad joins us, reaching out to shake my hand. “Arden.”

“May I introduce Charlotte? Charlotte, my father Arden McRae II.”

Dad turns to her with one of his signature charming smiles and offers his hand. When she takes it, he places his other hand on top in his version of enthusiasm. “I’m glad you could join us tonight.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to meet you.”

He steps back and glances at Mother. “You’ve abandoned your mask already? This is a new record for you.”

“I couldn’t see clearly while I was hiding behind it.” She shrugs. “Who’s going to tell me I have to wear it?”

“Absolutely no one. They wouldn’t dare,” Dad says.

This, formal as it is, is what constitutes flirtation between my parents. Charlotte once mentioned her mother occasionally sits on her father’s lap. Imagining my mother perching herself on Dad’s knees as the ballroom teems around us has me suppressing a grin.

A waltz begins, and I turn to Charlotte. “May I have this dance?”

She glances to where couples twirl on the dance floor, and a flush colors her chest, working its way up. She wets her lips,glances at my parents, then back at me and gives an infinitesimal shake of her head.

Mother waves us on. “Don’t stay here for us. Dance. Mingle.”

Charlotte’s lips curve, and she nods.

We step out onto the dance floor, and I place a hand on her waist and wait for her to take position.

“I don’t know this dance. Are they all like this?” she whispers.

I shake my head. “Mother likes a little pomp and circumstance here and there. I’ll teach you to waltz. Follow my lead. It gives me an excuse to hold you close.”

She moves her clutch to her left hand, then rests it on my shoulder and places her other hand in mine.

I smile down at her. She’s here. In my arms and my world, with diamonds on her shoes. If she enjoys herself enough, she may decide it’s worth coming back for more. “We’ll make a box with our feet. I’ll count.”

She fumbles a few times, then catches on quickly. My face aches from smiling. As the song is nearly drawing to a close, she trips on my feet. I clamp my arm around her waist, pick her up, and spin her in a circle, her gown flaring with the movement.

She laughs up into my eyes. When the music ends, I kiss her. It isn’t carnal or overtly sexual, but it isn’t fleeting either. It’s a claim.

It’ll cause gossip, but if people want to say I’ve lost my head, let them.

When we step off the dance floor for refreshments, well-dressed masked men, and some women, swarm her.

No one asks for introductions. That’s part of the fun of masquerade. But several try to guess her identity.

“What is your accent? I can’t quite place it. Is it Pittsburgh?” a woman wearing a silver gown asks.

I hand Charlotte a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Charlotte takes a single sip, then distractedly sets it on a nearby table. “No.”

“Did you attend Columbia? You look familiar,” a dark-haired man says.

He appears to be in his mid-twenties, so approximately the same age as Charlotte. I assumed the mask would do an adequate job of hiding her identity, but Charlotte attended an Ivy League college in this city.

She smiles and shakes her head. “I’m not giving out hints. That’s cheating.”

His gaze trails down her body, then back up again. “Lady in Red. I know you.”

“I truly don’t think we’ve met,” she says with a laugh.

He purses his lips. “It’ll come back to me.”

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