Page 29

Had she somehow fallen into one of her books?

Callista slid her hand from Everett's arm and took a few steps into the room, soaking in the magical atmosphere of the parlor-turned-ballroom.

The candlelight, the gleaming floorboards, the crystal vases refracting shimmering diamonds into the air, making it easy to pretend that pixies fluttered among them.

She spun in a slow circle, taking in each delightful detail as dreams from her girlhood—dreams of fairy tales and handsome princes and happy endings—surged back to life within her breast.

"Will you dance with me, Callista?"

Everett's voice—deep, compelling, and a tad uncertain—drew her attention. His gloved hand extended toward her as he dipped in a slight bow. The hope shining in the vibrant blue of his uncovered eye beckoned her to his side, but a touch of reality dimmed the magic as she slid her fingers into his.

"I would love nothing more than to dance with you, Everett, but I'm afraid I don't know how. All I know of dancing is what I learned standing on my father's feet when I was eight years old."

His gaze warmed. "I know enough for both of us. All you have to do is trust me."

Callista's heart pulsed with new fervor as she squeezed his hand. "I do."

As if it had been pre-arranged, Timens crossed the room to a decorative cabinet that had been scooted away from the wall.

A curved box sat atop the cabinet, a small crank handle extending from its right side.

Timens cranked it as far as it would go, then gently opened the lid.

Music spilled into the room as if Thumbelina herself conducted a tiny orchestra from inside the box.

"Oh, it's wonderful!" Enchanted by the music box, Callista tugged a chuckling Everett toward the contraption to investigate. "How does it work?"

Timens pointed to the metal arm extending from the center of the spinning disc. "The crank starts the motor, which spins the disc," the butler explained in the same authoritative tone he used when discussing the merits of Renaissance architecture. "See the tiny projections on the disc?"

She leaned closer. "Mmm hmm."

"Those pluck the pins on the musical comb—the wand extending from the center. Each of the pins is tuned to a specific pitch . . . which . . . ah . . . yes, well . . . I'd be happy to explain more about it another time."

Callista glanced up from the music box in time to catch the butler tugging on his collar.

"I believe Mrs. Potter requires my assistance in the kitchen. If you'll excuse me?" He strode from the room with enough haste to almost be considered a scurry.

"Well, that was odd." She turned her attention to Everett, who looked far too innocent not to raise Callista's suspicions. She raised a brow. "Did you send him away?"

He held up his hands. "I didn't say a single word."

"Uh huh." She wagged a finger at him. "You gave him one of your scary glares, didn't you?"

"Maybe. But only because the man has a tendency to explain things in far too much detail."

"I happen to like details."

Everett's gaze heated several degrees as he stepped closer and reclaimed her hand. "I happen to like you and would prefer dancing over an educational lecture on the mechanics of music boxes."

Callista swallowed, or would have if her mouth hadn't gone dry in that moment. Heavens, but her insides melted when he spoke in that intimate tone.

"What do I do?"

He positioned her left hand to rest on his shoulder then took her right hand in his left before splaying his right hand on her upper back.

His touch was firm yet gentle, and when he closed the distance between them, her breathing took on an erratic rhythm that failed to match the swinging meter of the music box waltz.

Everett leaned close and murmured in her ear. "Imagine a square etched into the floor."

That liquid voice of his had her imagining plenty, but nothing relating to squares on the floor.

Focus, Callie. You don't want to look the fool .

"I'll step forward with my left foot at the same time that you'll step back with your right.

" He moved his foot, and she hurried to move hers out of his way.

"Then we'll both step to the side, and finally, bring our feet back together at the opposite corner of our pretend box.

" He guided her through the motions, and she followed without too much difficulty.

"Now it's your turn to step forward with your left while I step back with my right.

Then to the side, and close. Excellent."

She looked up from staring at her feet and smiled, ridiculously proud of her feeble accomplishment.

His eye twinkled. "Now we'll try it in time with the music."

He led her through several squares, patient with her missteps as she learned the pattern.

"You're getting the hang of it," he praised. "Now look at me instead of your feet, and let your body rise and fall with the music."

"I don't know if I—"

"You can." His thumb stroked a line along her back, sending an array of delightful shivers coursing over her skin. "Look at me, Callista. Please."

Drawn to the insecurity hiding behind his seductive tone, she lifted her chin and looked him full in the face. This dance was as much for him as it was for her. He needed her gaze as much as he needed her trust, and she'd not withhold either.

"Do you promise to catch me if I fall?" she murmured.

"Always."

The music box played its song again, and together they stepped into the dance.

They held to their small box for the first few bars but then Everett led her into a widening pattern that twirled her around the entire perimeter of the room.

She stepped wrong several times, but he covered each error with his own mastery, tugging her slightly closer to him each time until mere inches separated them.

Worry slowly gave way to wonder as Callista ceased counting in her head and allowed the music and her partner to move her where they willed. Everett pulled other metal discs from the cabinet when he grew weary of hearing the same tune, and each song felt more magical than the last.

She lost track of how much time passed, but who cared for time when dancing in the arms of a dashing prince?

Finally, the music box wound down and Everett brought their dance to a halt.

His hand slid up to capture hers where it rested on his shoulder.

He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss upon her knuckles.

Her breath caught at the feel of his warm breath through her gloves, and the soft touch of his lips weakened her knees.

Slowly, he lowered her hand to rest against his chest and held it directly over his heart.

A heart she could feel beating with the same ferocity as her own.

"Callista . . . I . . . I've come to . . . care for you a great deal over the last several weeks."

His hesitant words tenderized her heart more than any polished charm could accomplish. "I feel the same." She dipped her chin, as shyness swept over her.

Goodness. What was she doing? He was her employer and far above her station. Admitting feelings for him was far from proper.

"All of you here at the manor have become the dearest friends to me."

He frowned slightly. "I'd like to be more than a friend to you, Callista. I'd like to court you and eventually make you my wife."

His wife? Oh, how could a dream coming true hurt so deeply?

"But, Everett . . . we are so different. You're from the cream of New York society, and I'm a poor bookbinder who didn't even know how to dance before tonight."

"Do you think I care about any of that?" His voice rose a notch. "I haven't lived in New York in more than five years, and I have no intention of returning. If the difference in our circumstances doesn't matter to me, why should it matter to you?"

"It matters because I don't want to be another barrier to you reconciling with your family. Family is important, Everett. And yours would never approve of me. And mine? Well, Papa needs me. I can't abandon the Rosenfeld Bindery."

"So you'd abandon me instead." His frown brought his scars into sharp relief.

Callista retreated a step, not because she was afraid of him, but because the fairytale magic was rapidly disintegrating and tears seemed imminent. Hurting him felt like taking a lash to her own back, but as tempting as it would be to try, she couldn't pretend their reality didn't matter.

Blinking back the moisture pooling in her eyes, she lifted the hem of her golden skirt and hurried for the door.

"Callista. Wait. I'm sorry. I—"

She paused in the open doorway and glanced back at him, unable to stop the tear that finally spilled over the edge of one eye. "I love you, Everett, but I love my father too, and right now, he needs me more than you do."

Everett strode toward her, and her traitorous heart longed to let him take her in his arms and erase her concerns. But Papa was too precious to erase, so she fled before she succumbed to temptation.

A knife slashed Everett's soul at the sight of that tear slipping down Callista's cheek.

He opened his mouth to call her back but swallowed the words and forced his feet to forfeit their chase.

She was leaving him. Not just tonight, but forever.

A wounded roar built in his chest, clamoring for release.

He wanted to howl out his pain, to scream until his throat was as raw as his heart.

How could she say she loved him and then leave?

Lightfoot stepped through the doorway, a scowl etched into his face. "What did you do, Griff? Miss Rosenfeld nearly ran me down in the hall, weeping ."

Everett's fist clenched of its own volition. "I acted quite monstrous." Sarcasm dripped from his words like dark molasses. "I had the audacity to ask to court her with the intent of making her my bride."

Lightfoot blinked, his expression growing quizzical. "What precisely did she say?"

Agitation growing, Everett prowled back and forth, his arms gesticulating as he recalled the disastrous conversation. "That she cared more for her father than for me."

Lightfoot raised a brow. "That's what you heard, but I seriously doubt that is what she said. Women can feel affection for both father and husband. One need not preclude the other."

"I know!" Everett huffed out a breath then pivoted to face his valet. Lifting a hand to his head, he rubbed at the headache that had started pounding behind his eyebrows. Forcing himself to set his hurt aside, he thought back over her words with a touch more objectivity.

"She said she couldn't abandon her father or their business and that my family would never approve of her.

She didn't want to cause the rift to widen between me and my parents.

That family was important. She said she loves me .

. ." He let that memory sink in for one blissful moment before continuing.

"But she loves her father too, and he needs her more than I do.

Which is utter rubbish. I've never needed anyone more than I do her. She brought me back to life."

"But what does she need?" Lightfoot's quiet question stilled Everett's spinning mind. "I've heard a lot about what you need and what her father needs. But what does she need?"

Everett grabbed the arm of the nearby settee and toppled onto the cushioned seat as surely as if his valet had just gut-punched him. How had he not thought to ask that question? He'd assumed his love, his provision, and his name would be sufficient. But it seemed she required more from him.

She needed his patience. His understanding.

She needed to be accepted by his family, or at least for him to find a way to assure her that she wasn't hindering his reconciliation.

A reconciliation he'd done a poor job of pursuing to this point.

She needed to be near her father, to be part of his life.

Maybe she even needed to continue her bindery work.

Everett had assumed that his financial status would relieve her of the burden of work, but what if she enjoyed that work?

The creative expression. The sharing of something special with her father.

Lightfoot sat beside him on the sofa and knocked his leg against Everett's knee. "Tonight need not be the end of your quest to win her hand, Griff. It can be the beginning. But only if you are willing to set aside what you want in order to become the man she needs."