Chapter Eleven #3
"I don't. But I learned to dance when I was young, before…" He stopped. "Before I decided that social events were a waste of time."
"And now?"
"Now I'm beginning to reconsider."
They turned again, and she found herself dipping backwards slightly, supported by his arm, looking up at his face from a new angle. His expression was intense, focused entirely on her, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
"Alistair?" Henry's voice cut through the moment. "You're supposed to be teaching me, not dancing with Miss Harrow."
Alistair stilled and blinked. He seemed to remember where they were and what they were supposed to be doing.
"Yes," he said, releasing Eliza with obvious reluctance. "Yes, you're right. Forgive me."
"It's alright." Henry's smile was knowing—far too knowing for a six-year-old. "I don't mind. But I think maybe we should practice the steps separately first. Before you get... distracted again."
Eliza pressed her hand to her flaming cheek and wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.
"Excellent suggestion," Alistair said, his voice admirably steady considering the circumstances. "Mrs. Crawford, if you would start from the beginning?"
The lesson continued, with considerably more distance between the adult participants.
But every time Eliza looked at Alistair, she found him already looking at her.
And every time their eyes met, she felt the ghost of his hand on her waist, his body moving against hers, the heat and intimacy of a dance that had felt less like a lesson and more like a promise.
Henry, watching them both with satisfaction, appeared to consider the afternoon a complete success.
***
Later, after Henry had been put to bed and the house had settled into its evening quiet, Eliza found herself in the library.
She hadn't meant to come here. She had intended to retire to her room, perhaps read a bit before sleep, certainly not wander the halls thinking about the way Alistair's hand had felt on her waist or the way his body had moved against hers during that waltz.
But her feet had carried her here anyway, to this room that smelled of leather, paper and something else; something that reminded her of him.
She was standing at the window, watching the moon rise over the moors, when she heard footsteps behind her.
"I thought I might find you here."
She turned. Alistair stood in the doorway, his cravat loosened, his hair slightly disheveled, as if he too had been wandering restlessly through the house.
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted.
"Nor could I." He moved into the room, stopping at a careful distance away. "I keep thinking about this afternoon. About the dancing."
"It was just a lesson."
"Was it?" His voice was soft, but there was an intensity beneath it that made her pulse quicken. "Because it felt like considerably more than a lesson to me."
Eliza didn't know what to say. She couldn't deny it and claim that the waltz had been innocent, educational, purely for Henry's benefit. They both knew better.
"My godmother told me to court you," Alistair said, into the silence. "She said I should show you what you would be leaving behind if you go to London."
"Is that what you've been doing? Courting me?"
"Trying to. Rather badly, I suspect." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I have no experience with this sort of thing. I've spent my entire adult life avoiding it."
"The books," Eliza said. "The poetry. The…"
"Desperate attempts by a man who doesn't know how to say what he feels, so he borrows other people's words instead." He took a step closer, then stopped himself, as if afraid to come any nearer. "Is it working? Even a little?"
She thought about the poetry book under her pillow
"It's working," she admitted quietly. "Perhaps more than it should."
Something flickered in his eyes, which seemed like hope, bright and terrifying. "Then you're not going to London?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"But you're considering staying?"
"I'm considering everything." She turned back to the window, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. "I'm considering what it would mean to stay. What it would mean to leave. What it would mean to…"
She stopped. The next words were too dangerous to say.
"To what?" His voice was closer now. He had moved while she wasn't looking.
"To let myself feel what I'm feeling."
The silence that followed was profound. She could hear his breathing, slightly unsteady, and she could feel the heat of him behind her, close but not quite touching.
"And what are you feeling, Eliza?"
Her name on his lips was almost more than she could bear. "You know what I'm feeling."
"I suspect. I hope. But I don't know." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Tell me."
"I can't," she said. "Not yet. I need…"
"Time. I know." He didn't sound disappointed, exactly. Just patient. Resigned. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
"Neither am I." The words surprised her as much as they seemed to surprise him. "I'm not going to London. I'm not leaving."
She heard his sharp intake of breath. "You're not?"
"No." She turned to face him then, finally brave enough to meet his eyes. "I'm staying. Whatever happens next…I'm staying."
The look on his face was worth every moment of uncertainty. Wonder, relief, and a joy so profound that it transformed his features into something almost unrecognizable.
"Eliza…"
"Don't say anything." She held up a hand, stopping him before he could close the distance between them. "Not tonight. I've made one decision, and that's enough for now. The rest can wait."
"How long?"
"I don't know. Until I'm ready. Until…" She struggled to find words for what she needed. "Until I'm sure that what we're feeling is real. That it won't burn out or fade or crumble under the weight of everything standing between us."
"It's real," he said quietly. "For me, at least, it's the realest thing I've ever felt."
"Then prove it. Keep courting me, keep leaving me books and keep standing too close and looking at me like…" She laughed, a sound that was half sob. "Like I'm made of stars. And maybe, eventually, I'll be brave enough to believe it."
"I can do that." His voice was rough with emotion. "For as long as it takes."
They stood there in the moonlit library, the distance between them electric with promise, neither willing to break the spell of the moment.
"Goodnight, Alistair," she said finally.
"Goodnight, Eliza."
She walked past him, close enough that her skirt brushed his leg, but at the doorway, she paused.
"The waltz was more than a lesson," she said, without turning around. "For me too."
And then she was gone, leaving him standing in the darkness with a heart full of hope and a future that suddenly seemed very different from the frozen wasteland it had been just months before.
***
That night, another book appeared on Eliza's nightstand.
This one was a collection of essays about natural history, one of her favorite subjects, with a pressed flower marking a particular page.
The essay was about the mating dances of birds, describing how males displayed their finest feathers and performed elaborate movements to attract their chosen partners.