Chapter 38 A Tale of Two Dances
A Tale of Two Dances
The gala was precisely the kind of event Alexander had mastered enduring.
Ornate, overindulgent, full of people who measured their words like currency.
He had shaken hands, smiled at the right moments, and listened to conversations about “historical significance” from people who wouldn’t know real history if it hit them in the face.
But tonight was different. Tonight, he knew she would be here.
Sebastian had told him days ago, casually mentioning it over drinks. “You know that Emilia decided to attend the gala in the end.” Like it was nothing. Like Alexander’s heart hadn’t immediately started beating faster at just the thought.
He’d spent the past hour stealing glances at the entrance, though he’d never admit it to anyone. Each time the doors opened, his eyes would drift over, only to return to whoever was speaking to him with practiced attentiveness.
“Your Highness.”
Alexander turned just in time for Genevieve to extend a hand, her expression polite but pointed.
“Genevieve,” he greeted, taking it briefly. “Enjoying yourself?”
“As much as one can.” She studied him for a moment. “Though I can’t help but notice you keep looking at the door. Expecting someone?”
He looked at her with infuriating calm. “Just making sure everything is running smoothly.”
Genevieve had to refrain from rolling her eyes. “Of course. How very diligent of you.”
And before he could formulate a response, a ripple of movement caught his attention. The doors had opened again, and this time—
His breath caught.
Sebastian entered first, confident and charming as always. But it was the woman on his arm that made Alexander forget, for a moment, how to breathe.
Emilia wore green—deep emerald that complemented her in ways he couldn’t even begin to articulate.
The dress wasn’t ostentatious, but it didn’t need to be.
The cut was elegant, effortlessly so, the fabric skimming the curves of her frame like it had been made for her.
But it wasn’t just the dress. It was the way she carried herself—self-possessed, slightly nervous but hiding it well.
Sebastian leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound that made something in Alexander’s chest twist uncomfortably.
He knew what Sebastian was doing. Drawing attention to himself, keeping the focus off Emilia, making sure no one immediately connected her to Alexander.
It was smart. It was considerate. It was exactly what a good friend would do.
And yet, watching Sebastian’s hand at the small of her back, seeing the easy familiarity between them—it took more restraint than Alexander wanted to admit not to cross the room immediately.
“They make such a handsome couple, don’t they?” commented an elderly duchess beside him, following his gaze.
Alexander maintained his neutral expression with effort. “I believe they’re just friends.”
The duchess raised a skeptical eyebrow. “With the way he’s looking at her? I doubt that very much.” She patted Alexander’s arm. “Sebastian always did have excellent taste.”
Alexander didn’t respond. He didn’t need to explain that Sebastian was doing him a favor, creating a buffer between Emilia and the gossip that would inevitably follow if they were seen together too soon.
He didn’t need to say that every second watching them together was making it harder to stay where he was.
He watched as Sebastian guided Emilia through the crowd, introducing her to various guests, his hand never leaving her back. He was being the perfect gentleman—charming, attentive, protective.
It was making Alexander quietly insane.
An hour later, after dutifully making his rounds, he found himself at the edge of the dance floor.
Sebastian and Emilia were dancing—nothing too intimate, nothing that would raise eyebrows, but they moved well together.
Sebastian said something that made her smile, and Alexander felt that twist in his chest again.
“The Queen has been asking after you, Your Highness,” came Thomas’s quiet voice beside him. “She’s across the room with the Minister of Culture.”
Alexander knew what that meant. His mother would expect him to join them, to charm the Minister, to fulfill his duties for the remainder of the evening without distraction.
Once he was at the Queen’s side, there would be no opportunity to speak with Emilia. The window was rapidly closing.
“I see,” Alexander replied, his eyes still on the dance floor. “Is she requesting my presence immediately?”
Thomas’s expression remained perfectly neutral, but something in his eyes softened.
“I believe I could reasonably inform Her Majesty that you’ll join her after fulfilling your obligation to acknowledge Miss Carter’s work on the exhibition.
” A subtle pause. “Protocol would dictate at least that much, sir.”
It was as close as Thomas would come to openly acknowledging what he knew—that Alexander needed this moment, and that he was willing to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.
“Thank you, Thomas,” he said, genuine gratitude in his voice.
Thomas inclined his head slightly. “I should warn you, sir—the press contingent is larger than anticipated. They’re quite interested in the royal collection pieces you’ve loaned to the exhibition.
The royal photographers are positioned by the south entrance, but several independent journalists have managed to secure invitations. ”
The message was clear: whatever he did next would not go unnoticed or undocumented.
“Your future bride is also watching,” Thomas added more quietly, though without judgment. “She’s been observing your attention to the dance floor for some time.”
Alexander didn’t need to look to know Genevieve was watching him. She missed nothing.
He considered this. One dance. That was all he wanted—needed. Just a moment to be near her, to tell her not to give up, that he was still fighting for them. But he wasn’t naive enough to think it wouldn’t have consequences.
“I understand,” he said finally. “Thank you for the information.”
Thomas nodded once. “I’ll be nearby if needed, sir.”
Alexander waited until the music ended, until Sebastian had escorted Emilia to the edge of the dance floor. Then, with a subtle nod to Thomas, he made his approach.
Sebastian spotted him first, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “Ah, Your Highness. Enjoying the festivities?”
“Immensely,” Alexander replied, his eyes never leaving Emilia’s face. She looked up, and their eyes met, and for a moment, the rest of the gala became a distant hum.
Sebastian glanced between them, then stepped back slightly. “I believe I’ll get us some drinks.”
As Sebastian disappeared into the crowd, Alexander moved closer to Emilia. She seemed wary, guarded. The wall she’d erected between them since ending things was plainly visible.
He stopped in front of her, his voice quieter than before. “Dance with me.”
Her brows lifted, her lips parting slightly. “What?”
“Dance with me,” he repeated, softer now.
She hesitated, glancing around the room. “Alexander, everyone is watching. The press—”
“I know.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “You know this will be in every paper tomorrow.”
A small smile tugged at his lips. “I’m acknowledging the historian who helped curate the exhibition. It would be rude not to.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “The last time we saw each other alone, I told you I couldn’t do this anymore. Not without a plan.”
“And I’m asking for one dance,” he said, his voice steady. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”
She studied him for a long moment before reaching for his hand. “This is a terrible idea,” she murmured.
He laced his fingers through hers. “Probably. But I need you to hear me out.”
She let out a soft, quiet breath, shaking her head as he led her to the dance floor.
The music swelled, and they moved together—not stiffly, not as two people performing a formality, but as something else. Something neither of them knew how to name.
Heads turned as they glided across the floor.
Where other couples maintained careful distance and followed prescribed steps, Alexander and Emilia moved with an intuitive synchronicity.
His hand at her waist guided her with gentle confidence, and she followed his lead as if they had danced together a hundred times before.
There was an ease between them, a natural rhythm that spoke of connection rather than obligation.
Several guests paused their conversations to watch, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and surprise. This wasn’t the stiff, formal Alexander they were accustomed to seeing at royal functions. This was someone else entirely.
From the corner of his eye, Alexander could see camera flashes. Whispers rippled through the crowd. He knew exactly what was happening—knew that by morning, their dance would be front-page news. And yet, for the first time in his life, he found that he didn’t care.
“I’m still working on it,” he said quietly, as they turned across the floor.
She looked up at him, confusion in her eyes. “Working on what?”
“A plan,” he said. “For us.”
Her expression softened, but wariness remained. “Alexander—”
“I’m not asking you to wait,” he continued. “I’m not asking for anything. I just need you to know I haven’t given up.”
She was quiet for a moment, processing his words. “You shouldn’t be telling me this here. Not with everyone watching.”
“This is the only chance I have.” His voice was low, urgent. “Don’t give up on me yet. Not when I’m finally fighting for something that matters.”
Emilia’s fingers brushed against his as they moved, barely there, but enough.
“I can’t make any promises,” she said finally.
“I’m not asking for promises. Just… possibility.”