Page 19 of Glimmer and Burn (Unity #1)

“Graves is not an idiot and he knows he has lots of enemies, he’ll not fill his home with people and leave valuable information unwatched.”

The quartet shifted into the next piece. Couples flocked to the floor and into position, floating through steps drilled into them since birth. All eyes were on the dancers. Miranda’s mother would be looking for her now, dragging a bachelor in tow to trap Miranda into a dance.

“Let’s go,” Miranda whispered and she scanned for her mother and Graves as she skirted the crowd for an exit. She was so distracted she nearly walked into a gaggle of gossiping aunts. A cloud of perfume smacked her in the face, each thick floral scent battling for dominance as the most garish.

“Oh, my dear, how lovely to see you again.”

“How’s your parents?”

“Are you very excited for your sister? Marriage is so wonderful. Graves is a great match.”

Miranda smiled and nodded along, desperate not to be entangled by social etiquette and failing.

She barely knew these people, only two of them she could recall by name.

Yet they were relentless, barraging her with comments and questions and leaving no room to answer as they talked over themselves.

She realized too late that she had lost Devin somewhere.

“I…”

“Don’t worry, dear, I’m sure you’ll get your own proposal…your sister’s match will do wonders for your prospects. A connection to Alderman Graves can only improve your chances.”

“Yes, you’re not out of the running just yet. At twenty-three you’re not quite over the hill.”

“It certainly isn’t your face that keeps them away, dear.”

Now they were disguising their cruelty as pity.

How very noble. And she was twenty-six, three years past her expiration date.

Her mind spun as she tried to find an excuse to get around them.

The last thing she needed was to upset elderly widows with little to occupy their time who would delight in drawing attention to even the smallest display of impropriety.

“Miss Wilde, there you are,” Drake swooped to her aide, his arm sliding gracefully through hers and tugging her to his side.

Drake’s effect was instant. The matrons turned their shoulders, lips sucking inward, and noses wrinkled in perfect unison.

“Lord Drake,” the boldest acknowledged, though Miranda recognized the tone as begrudgingly polite.

They would not overtly insult him at such a gathering, but his presence was not welcome.

Was this truly some blatant display of prejudice?

In the home of a Night Fae, were they really going to turn up their noses at Drake?

“We were just chatting with Miss Wilde,” another continued, “I’m sure there are…others better served by your particular charms.”

“The serving staff gather near the corners, dear, if you’re more comfortable with their sort of conversation, as I can imagine the bolder topics of such a gathering would prove cumbersome.”

Miranda’s jaw hung open, too stunned to speak while they insulted Drake without batting an eye. It wasn’t that he was a half-fae, they disliked him because he had been born poor. He bore it without comment, his smile fading with each word they threw at him.

“Actually,” Miranda started, and the matrons all rounded on her, waiting for her to aid them in sending Drake away, “I’d rather talk with him than endure another second of your cruel backhanded comments.”

The lady closest to her scoffed, putting a hand to her heart. “If you consider honesty to be cruel—”

“No, just you.” Miranda hooked her arm through Drake’s, reveling in their gasps of horror. “Lord Drake, you were saying?”

Miranda felt a warm flutter when his smile returned. “I was here for the promised dance, of course. If you’re still up for it, Miss Wilde.”

“The…what?”

He laughed, his humor returning as he squeezed her arm to his side. “Ladies, it has been a pleasure talking with you in spite of your callous wit, but then, the staff provide such intellectually superior conversation it’s understandable you’d prefer the company of those…similarly limited.”

He bowed and guided Miranda away, as the older matrons watched with open mouths as Miranda was whisked to the dance floor by the notorious Lord Devin Drake. They would have plenty to say tomorrow, but for now, they were speechless.

“What are you doing?” Miranda whispered as they joined the throng of dancers, next to a horned man with irises a molten red. She had stepped in on Drake’s behalf, but she had not agreed to dance with him.

“I believe this is called a dance,” Drake replied with a grin. “I thought you’d be familiar.”

Her jaw sealed shut. She should walk away right now.

She should not, under any circumstances, dance with Drake.

His smile was too inviting. His manner too exasperating.

His smell too intoxicating— was he sober today?

Instead of spirits she caught the warm scent of leather and an earthy soap that muddled her already frayed senses .

He made her feel too much. Too much heat. Too much frustration. Too much longing. Instead of leaving, her body moved as it had been programmed. The steps committed to muscle memory.

They came together, paired off alongside the rest of the dancers. Drake’s hand settled on her hip, his head tilted down.

How could he possibly know this dance? She found it hard to believe Drake could follow the steps drilled into her since she could walk, yet, there he was, leading her through the dance with the fluid ease of a natural.

Her breathing grew rushed. Color rose in her cheeks.

The start of a smile threatened to commandeer her mouth but she resisted, for she refused to smile at Drake of her own volition.

“We should slip out before the song picks up,” she whispered fiercely. She felt the gentle press of his hand like a candle flame, though there was no way for his body heat to coax through her many layers.

They swirled over the marble floor. Intertwined with dancers too absorbed in their own partners to notice how hard her heart was beating or how even the way he looked at her right now was somehow improper. He brought his face near her ear.

“Relax, love. We now have a clear path to the other side of the room.” He spun her a bit harder than the dance required, breaking from the intended flow and closer to their goal.

Miranda shook her head, her fingers clawing into his shoulder. “You really need to stop touching me under the ruse of something else.”

Heat flickered in his gaze. “Are you inviting me to touch you without a reason? Quite the bold assertion, but,” his voice turned to silk as he dipped her backward then back up until she was flush against him in a flourish that was entirely unnecessary for this set.

“I’d happily satisfy any desire you request, Miss Wilde. ”

She rooted her foot to the floor, halting his next step and he nearly stumbled. She expected him to get angry. Men always got angry when she showed aggression or asserted herself.

Devin laughed.

She continued to pout, but it was more of a stubborn purse of her lips.

“If I fall, I’m dragging you down with me,” he said, sweeping her along, their feet moving in perfect step. One-two-three-one-two-three-one-two-three.

Miranda smiled. Their speed increased, and she was starting to have fun. Dancing, fun. She would not have believed it two minutes ago.

“If you think you can,” she parried.

He was staring at her, not at the room. Neither of them were paying a wit of attention to anything outside of their arms, oblivious to the whispers that followed them, to the stares and shaking heads as Miranda mingled with the tainted. “Is that a challenge, Miss Wilde?”

Miranda swallowed. This was banter. Somehow they had started flirting. Her lips parted and she drifted in the exhilaration. Her mother insisted that dancing was the quickest way to judge if a man was suitable. Until now Miranda had not believed her.

She was caught up in the music, in the moment, lost in how easy it felt to move in step with him.

Another spin toward the far end of the floor, but this time he had gently lifted her, her delicate shoes wafting across the floor.

A laugh bubbled from her chest, forcing her lips into a true, beaming smile.

The sort of genuine smile that refused to be anything but happiness.

Devin paused a step, but recovered smoothly.

His gaze grew somber, as his grip on her shifted, almost like fidgeting.

But that was impossible. What about her could have possibly made someone of his experience falter?

Not her laughter or smile, that was too juvenile.

Maybe the sudden shift had nothing to do with her.

His steps had slowed, his movements more stilted.

She met his eyes and wished she hadn’t. Her legs nearly stopped altogether.

Then he licked his lips and Miranda felt it .

Like a bolt of lightning in her gut that jolted through her limbs before settling low, low in her stomach. She chewed the corner of her mouth.

He stopped as the notes to the song died away and melded into another.

They’d draw attention standing like this.

If the whole room wasn’t already aware of the scandalous dance she’d just experienced.

She felt stripped to her core. Naked and exposed.

Hot and shaky. Like she’d just done something extremely vulgar in public.

And, for a moment, she didn’t care or want it to end.

He cleared his throat, but didn’t pull away. “I believe this is our stop,” he said, a hint of something affecting his tone, voice almost gravelly. He cleared his throat again and began to loosen his hold on her. He stepped away.

Miranda let him slip through her hands. She didn’t fight it.

Her body felt like partially set gelatin.

And slowly the sound of the ball grew loud again.

Her ears rang as notes and the dull roar of conversation rose around her.

They were near the far end of the room. Far from the assault of the nosy widows.

Right next to a door that would lead further into the house.

Right. The plan. Her sister. Graves.

Miranda shook her head. This is exactly what she could not allow to happen. She stuck out a hand and balanced on the wall. Maybe inviting him was not a good idea. She couldn’t be expected to do what was necessary when she felt like this .

“After you,” Devin prompted.

Miranda pulled herself together. It was too late now.

She gave herself a firm pinch on the inner part of her arm, hoping to ground herself in something real that wasn’t the dream-like stupor of their dance.

She huffed as they slipped from the ballroom.

Hopefully, leaving whatever hovered between them on the dance floor.

Hopefully.