"I am entirely past the point of caring," Jane said, shifting her weight off her aching left foot. "I am 23, wearing a dyed gown, and possessing no fortune. I am practically invisible. I can say whatever I please."
He looked at her fully, then his gaze dropped from her eyes to the severe neckline of her dress, then back up. There was no insult in the look, no appraisal of her worth. It was simply an observation. "You do not look invisible," he said quietly.
Jane felt a strange sudden flush climb the back of her neck. She tightened her grip on her empty lemonade glass. "You are flattering a spinster, sir. Save your breath for the heirs. There is a particularly wealthy one in pink who dropped her fan for you earlier."
"Ah, Lady Mary," he grimaced. "If she dropped her fan any lower, it would have been halfway to China. Her mother looked ready to gut me with a fish knife."
Jane couldn't help it. A small genuine laugh escaped her lips. "You were exceptionally rude. You were supposed to pick it up and request a dance."
"I despise dancing," he said.
"Then why are you standing in a ballroom?"
"Because," he said, his voice dropping a fraction lower. "If I remain standing by that pillar, a very determined dowager countess is going to corner me and introduce me to her niece, who I am told collects porcelain dogs."
Jane looked up at him. The sheer absurdity of the conversation was dizzying. She had spoken more honest words to this stranger in 2 minutes than she had to anyone in London for 4 years.
He set his empty glass down on a nearby window ledge. He turned his body entirely toward her. The waltz swelled, the cellos digging deep into their strings.
"Dance with me," he whispered.
Jane froze. She stared at his cravat, unable to meet his eyes. "We have not been introduced."
"I do not care."
"My aunt will have an apoplexy."
"I will send her my finest apologies tomorrow."
"I am not a good dancer," Jane lied, panic fluttering in her stomach. She was a magnificent dancer. She just never had the opportunity.
"I am a terrible one," he countered easily. He held out his hand. He wore dark leather gloves, not the standard white kidskin. The leather looked soft, worn in. "Come now, save me from the porcelain dogs, and I will save you from the wall."
Jane looked at his outstretched hand. It was social suicide to dance with an unintroduced man. It was ruinous. It was exactly the sort of thing that got women sent back to the country in disgrace. But as she looked past his shoulder, she saw Aunt Martha bearing down on her, dragging a horrifyingly old rheumy-eyed Vicar by the elbow.
Jane took a breath. She placed her gloved hand in his. His fingers closed around hers. His grip was firm, warm, and entirely steady.
"I don't even know your name," she whispered as he stepped backward, pulling her gently toward the edge of the floor.
"I don't know yours," he replied, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Let's keep it that way."
The transition from the shadows to the blinding light of the chandeliers was jarring. Jane felt exposed, stripped of her protective invisibility. As they stepped onto the polished wood of the dance floor, she expected him to hesitate, to fumble with the rigid posture required of the waltz. He did not. He stepped close to her, closer than the dancing masters advised, but just within the boundaries of propriety. His right hand settled on her waist. The heat of his palm bled instantly through the layers of her old silk dress, through the stiff bone of her corset, directly into her skin.
Jane inhaled sharply, her free hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. Under the fine wool of his coat, his shoulder was solid muscle. There was no padding, no tailor's tricks, just a man.
"Breathe," he murmured. "You look as though you are marching to the gallows now."
"I am breaking every rule of polite society," she shot back, her voice trembling slightly.
"Rules were invented by dull people to control interesting ones," he said. He caught the beat of the music perfectly. With a strong, decisive step, he swept her into the turn.
Jane gasped. He was not a terrible dancer. He was commanding. He didn't guide her with polite suggestions. He moved her with an effortless authority that demanded she follow. They spun, the room immediately dissolving into a blur of candlelight and gaping faces.
Jane kept her eyes locked on the knot of his cravat. She could smell him now. There was no heavy cologne, no rosewater. He smelled of rain, clean linen, and a faint dark hint of cigar smoke. It was a grounding scent, entirely real in a room built on artifice.