Chapter 25
Once the tears come, they don’t stop. My chest stutters over shaky inhales and my lungs force out rocky breaths, but it’s not led by melancholy of what I’ve lost. It’s a tidal wave of comfort, a wash of nostalgia.
Sparks of joy from roaming over sentences and sentiments he strung together. For me. Still here, even when he’s not.
I spend the next day in bed, mostly because the pain prevents me from moving, and partially because I want to cathartically cry in peace.
I hate to cancel on Analiese again, but she texts to say she understands.
We used to share everything with each other.
Keeping William’s secret, lying to her about the engineering project, all of it weighs on me.
If I told her everything, would she even believe me?
Maybe. Then again, she’s desperate for a story.
It might give her more incentive to pry, and I don’t want to invite that in.
I’m less miserable when I’m cocooned in blankets rereading my dad’s email. I don’t tell Jared or Madelene. The fragility of grief is delicate, and I’m afraid this will cause them to shatter. It’s best I keep it to myself.
Monday is hard. The pain throbs like a tender blister, scattering my concentration.
I’ve forgotten my favorite headband and keep moving my hand to adjust a hair accessory that isn’t there.
I must look like shit, because Sumner shifts his stare in my direction more than once during history.
During our quiz, multiple-choice answers blur beneath my vision, and after, he forgoes taunting me in favor of heading to lunch with a few guys from crew.
A blessing, however small.
I’m 50 percent more human by Wednesday, but I’m exhausted as I drag myself to the athletic center for our ballroom dancing lessons. Even though this is the last thing I feel like doing, I can’t deny my eagerness to see William. When did I become this pathetic over a boy?
I’ve never had a single dance lesson in my life—those were saved for Madelene—because it wasn’t me. That urge was never there like it was for her. It’s nerve-racking having to participate in front of everyone.
Most seniors are already in the gymnasium with their escorts. Sabine and Inessa stand in a semicircle, Gareth Shep and Essie Burlen by their sides.
“Hey,” I say as I approach them. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“I don’t know.” Sabine props her forearm on Essie’s shoulder, casual, and Essie tips her head closer. “It might be fun?”
Sabine, I’ve learned, goes with the flow. She carries herself with this unshakable elegance that feels so easy, so carefree, and I wonder if anything truly bothers her. She’ll be good at this, no doubt.
“If you step on my feet,” Inessa’s telling Gareth, “I will personally string you upside down by your shoelaces on that”—she gestures—“basketball hoop.”
“Technically it’s called a rim,” Gareth offers.
Inessa ignores this. “I am very good at knots.”
Essie leans over to me. “He begged to be her escort. It was cute.”
“I am a priceless jewel with many options,” Inessa warns. “Don’t make me regret this.”
I aspire to have Inessa’s confidence. It’s unfaltering.
William’s across the basketball court in conversation with Lionel.
My face warms as he presses a palm against the wall, one boot tucked behind the other, eyes focused on whatever Lionel’s saying.
Most people do anything to escape a conversation with Lionel, but not William.
His attention is unwavering no matter who’s speaking to him, a type of practiced focus that makes you feel important.
“All right,” Mrs. Vidar-Tett yells, stepping into the center of the court. “Please welcome your instructor for the next hour, Mrs. Sorrentino. She’ll lead us through your first ballroom lesson, so let’s give her a warm welcome.”
A scattered applause echoes through the room as a short woman with curly hair threaded with gray joins Mrs. Vidar-Tett.
“Thank you all,” she says, a light Irish lilt in her voice.
“Ballroom dancing is both a physical challenge as well as a mental one, but I want you to have fun. That’s important.
” She glances around the gym. “As this is your first lesson, I don’t expect any of you to master the art.
You’re not here to impress me. And if you embrace it, you’ll find it has a lot to teach you.
Self-confidence, emotional expression, and, of course, teamwork. ”
For the next twenty minutes, she walks us through the basic steps of the dance we’re meant to perform at the presentation ball.
Students who lead have slightly different movements than ones who follow.
Body language is an important tool in communication, Mrs. Sorrentino reminds us.
Pay attention. Focus on your partner’s leading style.
Work together. The flow will appear natural if you’re working in sync.
And when she asks for a volunteer, William’s hand shoots through the air. A few guys snicker, but there’s no shame on his face as he steps into the center of the room.
Mrs. Sorrentino leads first, running it back while counting aloud so everyone can hear. William squares his shoulders and follows with ease, and when she notices how quickly he catches on, her eyes pop with genuine surprise. A silent wave of awe falls over the room.
“Wonderful,” she states when they switch, William leading the four-count steps. “Remember, this is practice. Don’t expect perfection. The more you try, the easier it should come. I’m going to walk around and observe.”
When it’s time to break off with our escorts, William finds me.
“You’re such a show-off,” I say under my breath, but I’m grinning.
“You must allow me to be of some use.” His confident gaze sinks into mine. “Since I haven’t had much to offer.”
This gives me pause. “What do you—?”
“Let’s try it together,” Mrs. Sorrentino interrupts from across the court. “And one, two—”
The next thing I know, William’s hand finds mine, the other stabilized on my upper back.
My heartbeat quickens.
“Place your hand on the top of my shoulder,” William reminds me.
Whoosh. A blood rush to the head. Rapid tremors convulse in my chest. I am extremely aware of our sudden physical closeness.
The sweet camphorous scent that lives in the fabric of his clothes, fragrant and earthy.
The slight stubble that roams over his jaw, his amber eyes—all of it’s dangerous.
I shouldn’t allow my heart to carry these live-wire feelings.
“Follow in my steps,” he continues. “My foot falls back, your right falls forward. It will become more fluid as we go.”
I try, even though I’m stiff and awkward. A quick glance around the room reveals everyone else might feel the same. In fact, most of us would feel more at ease reciting the periodic table in front of thousands of people instead of struggling to find an ounce of rhythm.
“Loosen your shoulders,” he encourages. “Straighten your back. Don’t look down, at me.”
I do as he says—
And then immediately step on his foot.
“Shit.” I drop my hands. “I’m sorry.”
Good thing I am not Gareth Shep.
“This didn’t come naturally to me either,” he reassures me. “It’s less about memorizing each step like you’re conducting an experiment and more about trying to find that instinctual movement.”
“Oh,” I deadpan, “is that all?”
His smile reaches his eyes. “Trust yourself.”
He makes it sound easy, but something inside me wilts.
I’ve never excelled in that particular practice.
I mean, I’ve tried. Like when I attempted playing the tuba or when I’d tried out for the soccer team my first year at Ivernia and quickly realized running was not my strong suit.
Or when I’d entered a neighborhood bake-off when I was nine, creating a cherry pie so sour Jared spit it out in front of me.
My parents always had this uncanny sense of seeing what I couldn’t. They understood my potential better than me and knew where I should place it, so following their guidance was easy.
Following William, however, is not that simple.
“Easy for you to say.” I stumble, then right myself. “You were born into this.”
“Yes,” he says, a bitter edge in the word. “Born into a life that’s been defined on my behalf.”
I blink up at him. “Does it have to be that way?”
A sour expression flickers across his face before he allows himself a resigned sigh.
“It was my idea to go to the city for education, as I’ve mentioned.
My father wasn’t easily swayed. Why would I go to London if we had private tutors at our beck and call?
If I was around, he could mold me into the person he wanted me to be.
But I managed a compromise. One year in London, then I’m to take over managing the estates—though I’m finding it not nearly long enough. It’s why I wished for more time.”
“And what if you didn’t do that?” I press. “Take over for him, I mean.”
“Straighten your shoulders. There you go. Good.” This time, I match his step with one-tenth less ineptitude.
“To answer your question, I would fail my mother and sister. When my father dies, I am to become the sole provider. For them, for my future wife. It’s what’s expected.
Our laws favor male inheritance, and as he has no brothers, this falls on me.
Marrying, passing on our title—all of this is my responsibility.
What I want matters little in his eyes.”
The burden of expectation must weigh on him. Even though he’s grown up with attendants and staff and enough money to live comfortably, he still has unfulfilled personal desires that may never come to fruition. No wonder he’d said he could see himself here.
“What does Caroline want?”
“Well, I suppose if you’d ask my father, he’d say she wants to find someone suitable for marriage,” he goes on.
“She’s to enter her third Season. Our father prefers her future husband to be someone of high rank, though I’m not sure she sees the importance of it.
She would much prefer seeing the world, I think, rather than the adventures love offers.
We often talked about traveling together when we were young.
The older we get, the more it seems as though it’s a wasted dream. ”
I consider telling him he’s the reason Ivernia exists at all, that he’s gone on to squeeze everything he’s wanted out of life, but Sumner’s warning rings through my head. The risk of changing the outcome feels dangerous.
“You’ve found a way to London,” I say instead. “Maybe there’s a way to have both. To take care of your family and achieve everything you’ve dreamed of doing.”
I’m very aware of the sturdy press of his palm against my back as he pulls us a hair closer. “If my predicament is permanent, I believe I could be happy existing here with you.”
A fumbling in my chest causes me to temporarily lose count, and I step too soon. He foresees this mistake and gives me space, avoiding a small collision of our torsos.
“You’re overthinking,” he says plainly.
“Do I do that?” I’m suddenly self-conscious. “Overthink?”
“At times,” he admits, and now I know he’s telling the truth. “I sense you’re in your head a lot. This? It’s just dancing. Not solving an anomaly in space-time.”
The corners of my lips hitch into a smile. “One of those is my preferred comfort zone.”
“Then we shall change that.” He squeezes my right hand. “Tighten your grip—there you are—don’t tense up. Trust me for a moment.”
I do as he says, and he maneuvers his hand to the small of my back before swooping me into a low dip that takes me by surprise.
My heartbeat thuds fitfully as his gaze latches on mine, so tender I’m afraid it might obliterate me from the inside out.
Amber eyes as warm as embers. Soft, open, like the heart he wears on his sleeve.
That’s bravery, I realize. Going after what you want.
Speaking your mind, saying how you feel.
I’ve never mastered it, only watched it unfold for everyone else.
He brings me back to my feet, smoothly spins me in a delicate twirl, and then repositions his hand on my back. Now I truly understand the meaning of breathless. My stomach flips. It’s like my brain transforms into a shimmering pool of glitter when I’m in his presence.
“Well done,” he breathes.
I place my hand on his shoulder. “I’m not sure I did much.”
But he only shrugs. “I disagree.”
We walk through the steps in silence, and it’s as though the world around me comes back to life. The squeal of sneakers against the hardwood floor mingling with rumbling conversation. The delicate string quartet playing from the sound system and an occasional “Nicely done” from Mrs. Sorrentino.
“Tell me,” William says, “if this is not the type of usual activity that leads to courtship in this era, then how does one find love?”
A blush spreads across my face as I consider this. “Well, dancing still exists, it just looks like—” My hands free from his and I start gyrating, hips swinging, head thrashing. William barks out a laugh.
Mrs. Vidar-Tett’s voice interrupts my display. “Delaney, please.”
William catches my hand in his, bringing me back into our timed step. “Forgive me, but that was atrocious.”
“I don’t deny it.” I adjust my hand on his shoulder. “The talking part hasn’t changed much, other than it’s mostly done on a phone or over text.”
“I see,” he says. “Crafting texts is similar to penning romantic letters, though I do prefer in-person company.”
My mind leaps to our walks. “I’m also a fan.”
We trade smiles, my skin warming under his attention.
“The other day,” I say, remembering, “you said you found work?”
I’d meant to ask him, but it escaped my mind. I have no idea what he could possibly be doing.
A conspiratorial brightness shines in his eyes. “I could tell you, but it would be much more entertaining if you’d allow me to show you,” he says with that heart-melting grin. “In person, naturally.”