Falling in love? No, that implies taking the first careful step off the cliff. I have already fallen, and now I am plummeting, and it thrills and terrifies me.
When we draw near again, he murmurs, “You do realize you have stumbled into my trap, crécerelle?”
I tense, breath gone completely for one irrational second. I can only imagine my expression, but he does not see it as he twirls me again and then leans in to whisper.
“You are apparently unfamiliar with the customs of my country,” he says. “When one agrees to adanse à deuxwith a man, one is, in fact, agreeing to marry him.”
I stifle a laugh. “I see.”
“It is true. I shall need to set the bans for morning. That is what they call it here, do they not? Setting the bans? Reading the bans? Something like that. The point, crécerelle, is that you are now stuck with me.”
“What if I do not wish to marry?”
“Hmm. That is a problem. However, I believe the custom only requires that, having engaged in an intimate dance for two, you are bound to me. Skipping the wedding would be simpler, I agree. I could save the expense and use it to buy you a proper sword instead.”
“I like the one you already gave me.”
His eyes spark, pure devilry behind them. “But I have not given you that, crécerelle. We are taking it slow, non?”
“Taking it slow in that regard? Yet committing ourselves to one another after a mere two days together?”
“Three days.”
“I was unconscious for part of one.”
“We have known one another for two and a half days, which in my country, is the perfect length of courtship.”
“Why do I feel that, if I actually went to your country, I would discover you have not been entirely truthful about it?”
“You shall have to visit it and find out. And to visit it, you shall have to stay with me, so that I may escort you there and introduce you to my family as my beloved.”
I roll my eyes. We are approaching the far side of the dance floor, and with one final whirl, we are there.
“The door is straight ahead,” he whispers. “I will pretend I am taking you outside for some air.”
He lifts my hand again, a courtly and proper escort guiding me through the crowd.
“Miranda?” a voice says behind us.
I do not turn. I recognize that voice, and my heart squeezes with the pain of what feels like betrayal, but I pretend I do not hear her, and Nicolas does the same. Then Emily is in front of us, frowning.
“Miranda, wherever—?”
She sees Nicolas and gives a sharp inhale. “Oh.”
“We are stepping out for air,” I say as calmly as I can. “We will return in a—”
“Nicolas,” she says, and my heart jumps into my throat.
I’m about to deny it, pretend she has mistaken my escort for another.
“Oui, Miss Emily,” Nicolas murmurs.
Her gaze turns to me then. I brace for anger, for outrage, but the look in her eyes is worse. It isn’t even disappointment. It’s acceptance. Sad acceptance, as if thinking this is the obvious answer. I had been so friendly and so kind, and of course I had an ulterior motive. Of course I betrayed her.
I try to remind myself that she may have betrayed Nicolas first. But that hurt in her eyes says she did not. Whatever happened, she was her uncle’s dupe, as her grandfather said.
“We must go,” I say, my voice low. “I’m sorry, Emily. So very sorry. It was important.”