Page 44 of Love & Letter Charms
The surprise on her face was almost comical. Her eyes widened, her lips parting slightly, and that enchanting blush spread across her cheeks like watercolor bleeding across parchment. She looked as though she wanted to glance behind herself to confirm he wasn’t actually approaching someone else.
He stopped before her and bowed. Then he straightened, extended his gloved hand toward her, palm upward in invitation, and felt the collective weight of a hundred curious gazes upon them.
“Lady Aurelise, would you do me the honor of this dance?”
His voice came out steadier than he felt, which was no small wonder considering his heart was attempting to beat its way out of his chest.
L. He was about to take L’s hand in his.
How many times had he imagined this moment? How many sleepless nights had he spent wondering what it would feel like to touch her, to hold her, to hear her voice at last, shaped around words meant only for him?
For a breathless moment, she simply stared at his offered hand, clearly bewildered by his choice after his assurances in the garden that he had no interest in selecting her as his bride. Then her gaze slid up to meet his—dove-gray, he realized, the softcolor of winter mist and gentle rain—before she carefully placed her gloved fingers upon his palm.
Disappointment fluttered briefly at the barrier of silk and kid leather between them. How he longed to feel her skin against his, to discover if it was as soft as he imagined. But this—this tentative touch—was enough for now.
His fingers curled around hers, and his heart made another valiant effort to leap free of his chest. How utterly ridiculous he had become. He, with all his experience among ladies, now found himself trembling like an untried youth at the mere touch of a gloved hand. If anyone had suggested a year ago that Prince Ryden might one day be rendered breathless by such innocent contact, he would have laughed himself hoarse at the absurdity.
Yet here he stood, utterly transformed by her presence, by the knowledge of who she was. He held her gaze, unable to look away, drinking in the sight of her—the delicate curve of her jaw, the unguarded softness of her lips, the confusion in those gray eyes.
She looked down quickly, breaking the connection, and he remembered that he was meant to be dancing with her, not standing there like a besotted fool.
He guided her to the center of the ballroom floor, where they turned to face one another. She kept her gaze carefully lowered, her lips pressed together in what might have been nervousness or determination. When she finally placed her hand upon his shoulder, he felt the slight tremor in her fingers, and it endeared her to him even more.
His hand should have settled at the proper position on her back—the middle. Instead, it found itself lower, his palm curving against the small of her back. He allowed himself the briefest indulgence, the faint slide of gloved fingers as his hand traced upward to its proper place. A mere moment, the smallest of improprieties, and mercifully, she seemed not to notice.
Then the truth of this moment struck him anew: this washer. L. Here within the circle of his arms, warm and real and heartbreakingly near. The exquisite reality of her threatened to overwhelm him entirely, and he drew in a steadying breath, forcing his racing thoughts toward some semblance of composure.
The musicians began to play, and he guided her into the first steps of the dance.
L, he longed to whisper, that single letter that had become so precious to him. A sudden curiosity flared—why that particular initial? Was there a second name hidden beneath her formal title? Or had she, in her determination to remain unknown, simply plucked a letter from the air, creating distance even in that small choice?
“Your Highness,” she said, her voice so soft he had to lean closer to hear her, a privilege he was in no hurry to forfeit. “I confess I find myself rather confused by your selection.”
He managed his usual teasing smile, though it felt strained around the edges. “Does it surprise you so greatly that I might wish to dance with you first?”
A faint crease appeared between her brows. “To be entirely honest, yes. You assured me yesterday that …” She faltered, her gaze flicking over his shoulder as other couples began to take their places on the floor, clearly unwilling for anyone to overhear precisely what he had assured her—though such a risk was laughably small given how softly she spoke. “Well, after our conversation …”
“After our conversation yesterday,” he said, keeping his tone pitched just low enough to reassure her of their privacy, “I feel as though we are both … liberated. We may converse honestly, without the tedious pretense of courtship that burdens my interactions with the others.”
“I see,” she said, though her expression suggested she was not entirely convinced. “Then is this perhaps … a strategic maneuver? A means of increasing interest among the other Crown Court ladies? Because I can assure you, Your Highness, such tactics are entirely unnecessary. They already regard you with utmost admiration.”
He laughed, the sound easing the tightness in his chest as he settled more comfortably into their exchange, though every inch of him still tingled with awareness of how close she stood. “No, Lady Aurelise. I merely wished to dance with someone whose company I found agreeable yesterday, despite your determined efforts to convince me of your unsuitability.”
“Ah.” She fell silent for a moment, her attention seemingly focused on the pattern of their steps. Then, with visible hesitation: “Might I inquire about your rather … abrupt departure yesterday? I hope I did not cause offense with my peculiar questions about opinionated flora.”
The reminder of that moment—when her innocent words had revealed her true identity—sent another jolt of awareness through him. “Not at all,” he assured her. “In fact, I found your observations quite charming.”
Her cheeks flushed anew at that, and she glanced up at him with a flicker of uncertainty still lingering in her gaze. “You seemed almost … unsettled,” she persisted. “As if something had disturbed you greatly.”
“I recalled an urgent matter requiring my attention,” he said, which was, in a sense, true. The surge of magic that had roared through him in that moment had indeed demanded his urgent and immediate retreat. How desperately he wished to tell her everything—that he was R, that he had recognized her, that his heart belonged to her completely. But he suspected she would not respond favorably right now to this revelation. “It was nothing you said, I assure you.”
She nodded but offered no reply, her gaze fixing somewhere near his shoulder. Her eyes darted in small, nervous movements as she studied a region of his jacket with unwarranted fascination. Her lips parted slightly, as if preparing for speech, only to press together again in silent resignation. He recognized the struggle instantly. She had described this very predicament in her letters. The paralyzing search for proper conversation, the words that refused to come. He cast his mind swiftly through their correspondence, seeking a subject she might find comfortable enough to discuss.
In that very first letter, she had spoken of her manifestation. She hadn’t revealed the exact nature of her magic, but she’d said that the thing she once treasured above all else, her one true solace when the world grew too loud, had become the very thing that overwhelmed her.
Music.
He guided her through a turn, his hand steady at her back as she moved gracefully beneath his touch. “Your demonstration at the Opening Ball was nothing short of magnificent,” he said as she faced him once more. “Have you always loved creating music?”
