Chapter Eight
The next morning at dawn, she found herself in Green Park, where the crisp breeze nipped at her cheeks and tugged at the edges of her cloak.
She drew it closer, the heavy folds of wool warding off the chill.
But the shiver running through her wasn’t from the cold.
It started somewhere deeper, stirred by the mere thought of Adam and the quiet intensity he carried, a presence so steady and unshakable it seemed to linger even in his absence.
He’d already been waiting for her.
He grinned at her, a smile that had a mix of surprise, elation, and something else so sincere that she forgot why she doubted whether she should come.
“Charlene. You came.”
“Adam,” she returned. “Curiosity won. After all, we haven’t seen each other in all this time and then you send me a rather scandalous invite to meet you here.”
“Well, I’m glad your curiosity led you here. Come.” He motioned ahead.
Well, I’m here already. So Charlene followed him.
He walked a step ahead of her, his casual stride outpacing the brisk crunch of her boots over the dried leaves. Dark tendrils of his shiny black hair curled around the edges of his collar and stuck out under his top hat, the damp morning air teasing them loose.
Charlene wished he would turn around.
She wanted to read his face.
But would that give her insight into him? This? She didn’t know. But she still wanted to inspect every line, every crinkle when he smiled.
She pulled a face at his back, wondering why he’d insisted on meeting her here in Green Park, of all places.
The fog clung to the edges of the park like a half-drawn curtain, softening the world into layered shades of gray.
Almost eerie. No, most certainly eerie. Dew glistened on the skeletal branches of various types of trees, their leaves littered in fiery reds and burnt orange.
And then, just as they crested a small rise, Adam stopped. “There,” he said, his mouth curving in a satisfied grin. “What do you think?”
At first, Charlene wasn’t sure what she was supposed to think. She also wished to unravel the meaning of his smile.
She stepped up beside him. In front of them, a massive pile of leaves rose from the earth like an autumnal monument. It was absurdly large, almost unbelievable. “You brought me here to see… dead leaves?” She shot him a skeptical look. Was there some symbolic meaning to this?
He turned to face her, his grin unfaltering. “Not just any leaves.” His hand swept over the scene. “These are your leaves.”
“Mine?” Charlene blinked. “How so?”
“It’s my gift to you. As a friend. You love plants.”
Was he mocking her?
“Really? Leaves?” She honestly wanted to pry his head open and have a look. She gave a snort. “Most girls are presented with emeralds or diamonds—or at the very least, a bouquet of roses. But leaves?”
“You’re not like most girls, are you?” His tone was light, teasing, but the edge of sincerity could not be mistaken.
“I’m not,” she agreed but curled her lips.
He stepped closer, and in the thin morning light, she glimpsed the expectation in his dark eyes. Like he wanted to be praised for bringing her to this spot.
“Besides,” he added. “Jewels shatter under pressure. Leaves… they are softer.”
“Are they? They are certainly crunchier.”
“Only the dead ones.”
“Come.” He led her closer to the pile, then stooped to scoop one up, holding it between two fingers before letting it flutter back to join its comrades.
“You do realize that I like plants. Leaves attached. Not leaves piled like this.”
Adam straightened, his grin sharpened by the faintest hint of detectable mischief. “Well, you’d hardly grow to love them standing there like a skeptical schoolmistress. Come closer, and I’ll show you.”
Grow to love…
Against her better judgment—or exactly in line with it, she couldn’t tell anymore—she stepped forward.
The cool morning air swirled around her feet, catching the hem of her skirts as she stopped just before the riotous mound.
They smelled like autumn and dirt. That she did love.
The smell of soil. And for a moment, she almost forgot the absurdity of the situation.
Adam held out his hand. “We’re going to try the jump.”
“The what?” Charlene’s voice lifted, incredulous.
“You know,” he said, tilting his head. “A lift. Like in that Spanish-style dancing. Bolero, it’s called. Very dramatic. Very impressive.” He clapped his hands once, the sound startling in the stillness. “And very fun.”
Charlene arched a brow.
“If you master this, Charlene, you can master any dance.”
“A shortcut to mastering rhythm then?” She narrowed her gaze and considered the matter.
Adam’s eyes lit up as he began to explain.
“It’s a Spanish dance that my mother taught me when I was a boy.
Lively, full of rhythm. You’ve got the dramatic arm movements, quick footwork, and sometimes they use castanets to keep the beat.
It’s as if…” He paused, swirling his free hand in the air as if summoning the spirit of the dance itself.
“Elegant, but with a fire underneath. Quite theatrical.”
Charlene cocked her head, intrigued. “And they do lifts in it?”
“Well, not always,” Adam admitted, grinning. “But I think we can make our own version, to round off the dance lesson I promised you?” He held out his hand again with a playful flourish.
She stared at him. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”
“Completely serious.” He gestured to the pile again. “That’s why I raked together the leaves. They’re for you… to be safe. Should you, you know, misstep.”
“Is this what you meant with your goading to practice?”
“Practice starts with fun.”
Fun.
Was this fun? And safe? “It’s like you know I always misstep,” she muttered. In life and otherwise… “I always do.”
“So, I’ll keep you safe when you misstep again.”
Again. There it was. She was a clumsy dancer, and the leaves were to cushion them from her missteps. The entire charade at the park was a misstep. It would be better to return home, would it not?
Charlene opened her mouth, then closed it again, at a rare and temporary loss for words. “Adam,” she managed finally, “if anyone saw us out here…” If she gave in…
“They won’t.” He glanced at the leaves, his grin spreading. “The Ton’s still asleep. It’s just you, me, and, well, an impressive half-crackle underfoot.”
The half-crackle inside her chest grew into a rolling thunder.
Very well.
She wanted to jump.
“You’re impossible.”
“Leaves are meant to be impossibly jumped into when raked into this fabulous mattress.”
Impossible.
Charlene shook her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing as he flicked the leaf from his finger. Very well. What was a jump into leaves? It certainly wouldn’t hurt. And for whatever reason, he equated this to her missteps.
So he remembered that they jumped on mattresses as children—all those years ago seemed like yesterday when he smiled at her so.
“Two…”
Charlene placed her hand gingerly in his, feeling the warmth of his skin, so sure, so steady.
He guided her other hand to rest on his shoulder, his fingers brushing the curve of her wrist with an ease that felt practiced, intimate.
The slight pressure of his palm against hers anchored her while the back of her neck prickled with awareness.
“Three,” Adam said softly, though he didn’t move right away. Instead, his gaze dropped to her feet, then flicked back to her face. “Feet first. Always the feet.”
“I see,” she murmured, though her pulse betrayed her calm.
He shifted closer, the hem of her gown brushing against the polished leather of his boots. “Watch me,” he said. His voice was low, his words crisp, as if they were discussing something far more mundane. Yet his nearness turned the moment electric.
Adam stepped back and tapped the damp ground lightly with his foot, a deft, sharp rhythm that struck her as unexpectedly graceful.
His movements were quick, deliberate, and somehow impossibly smooth.
The shift of his narrow hips as he angled toward her caught her attention, the movement fluid and deliberate, as if every step had been rehearsed a thousand times.
His broad shoulders spread like a promise as he lifted his arms to guide hers, filling the space between them with a quiet power that made the air feel impossibly thin.
She could sense his warmth even through the layers of fabric separating them, an unspoken pull that left her rooted to the floor.
His strength was undeniable—not just in the firm press of his hands, but in the steady calm that seemed to radiate from him, anchoring her against emotions she couldn’t yet name.
“This”—tap, pause, sweep of his foot, retreating again to a poised stillness—“is how the bolero begins. It’s not merely about rhythm.
It’s about control, about anticipation.” His dark eyes lifted to meet hers, and Charlene forgot what breathing felt like.
“Think you can do it?” he asked, his tone teasing.
“I… suppose.” She hesitated, then mirrored his movement, her slipper brushing softly against the ground. Her first attempt was clumsy, her foot skittering awkwardly.
“That was terrible.”
Charlene startled, glaring at him. “You could at least pretend I’m not hopeless,” she shot back, but the humor tugging at his lips suggested he was enjoying this immensely.
And just like that, they were like childhood friends again. Just like a lifetime before last year.
And yet different.
“Hardly hopeless,” he replied. “I’ve always had hope for you.” His voice gentled as he leaned slightly closer. “Try again. Slower this time.”
Charlene straightened her spine and focused. Tap, pause, sweep. Her heart thudded with an odd mix of determination and self-consciousness.
“Better,” Adam murmured, his tone low and approving. Suddenly, his hands were on her waist, firm and unyielding. She froze.