Page 133 of Prince of Masks
He steals my hand—then angles it away from him, and just… holds my hand out.
Oh. I understand.
Dray’s hand takes mine, his fingers firm around my palm. His smile is soft, menacing enough to tickle up my spine. “First dance?”
A tight smile digs onto my face, smarmy. The look I glare at him is a blatantI’d rather fuck a cactus.
Dray reads the less than courteous message in my glare. His smile tugs before he leans into me, bringing his mouth to my ear.
The warning in his tone wipes my smirk clean, “You wouldn’t want me to think you are backing out of our deal, would you? I have no qualms with exposing you right here.”
Fuck around,he’s telling me,and I’ll let everyone know exactly what you were doing in the library.
He draws back and looks down his nose at me.
A mere heartbeat passes before I nod, polite, an almost curtsy. “You may have my first dance.”
I pass off the champagne to Mother’s waiting hand.
Dray slips his hand to the small of my back and guides me through the throngs of rich assholes to the centre of the promenade.
Every debutante has returned to the sprawling space, this time with a partner. All around, pairs gather with their arms locked, gazes hooked.
Dray and I just make it a second before the song picks up. He pulls me against him.
A shudder runs up my spine to my stiff shoulders.
The waltz begins, slow and smooth.
I move with him, my steps robotic, my arms framed to keep distance between us.
“Have you spotted a desirable suitor yet?” he asks coolly. His gaze drifts over my head to the many faces of bachelors watching from the sidelines. “So many to choose from.”
I roll my eyes. “Worry about your own betrothed. As I hear it, you are suddenly single.”
“I have shifted my attention,” he concedes, and his voice is clipped. He looks down at me. “Are you enjoying it?”
He pushes me from him, gentle, then twirls me around.
The moment I pause, facing him, he steps into me, his arm looping around my middle—and I realise it was a move to shorten the distance between us, to hold me closer to him.
My lips curl into a grotesque smile. “Enjoying what?”
“All this attention you have tonight,” he says with a lift of his chin, a gesture to the faces angled towards us.
I look around, rigid in my waltz frame.
A lot of eyes on us—onme.
A flush heats my cheeks. “It’s the art of makeup.”
“Is it?” he drawls, coolly, like he couldn’t be more disinterested in this conversation, in me, if he tried.
He turns me around—and I get a fresh view of faces angled towards the dances. My gaze sweeps over them, fast, searching for any hint of Eric.
He should be here soon, if not already.
The gentries will have been kept waiting out in the front gardens of the palace, then brought through after the Walk of the Debutantes.
