Page 36 of Bookshop Cinderella

“I don’t see how that’s possible. If the bet is about transforming me into society’s idea of a beauty, who decides? And what are the criteria? Beauty is so subjective.”

“It’s much simpler than you think. Every year, I sponsor a charity ball to raise money for London orphanages. You will attend, accompanied by Delia, of course, and if you dance every dance, we win. You see? Easy as winking.”

“A ball?” She straightened in her chair, staring at him, her hazel eyes wide with unmistakable horror. “I’m to attend a ball?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, noting her obvious dismay. “It’s not fancy dress, or some elaborate theme where everyone talks riddles, or speaks only in French, or wears a silly hat during the supper. Nothing like that. I always think affairs of that kind are so tedious—”

“You never mentioned there would be a ball.” Her voice rose on the last word, sounding almost like...panic.

He tried to fathom what about a ball could evoke this sort of reaction but failed utterly. In his experience, women adored balls. “Sorry,” he murmured after a moment. “I suppose I ought to have mentioned it sooner; but like you, I was distracted and forgot. My dear girl,” he added as she groaned, “whatever’s the matter?”

“A ball.” She rubbed a hand over her forehead and began to laugh, but it was obvious she wasn’t the least bit amused. “It would have to be a ball, of all the crazy things.”

He’d been married, he reminded himself. He’d lived in intimacy with a woman for nearly two tumultuous years, and during his eight years as a widower, he’d had several mistresses. In addition, he was possessed of four sisters and countless female relations and servants. By this point, Max would have thought he’d developed a pretty fair understanding of the opposite sex; but as he studied Evie’s face, he realized that women, heaven bless them, still had the power to confound him.

She laughed again, breaking into his thoughts. “If a ball is the criteria, I’m afraid we’ve lost this bet even before we’ve begun.”

“May I ask why you say that?”

She grimaced. “I can’t dance.”

“What?” He laughed in sheer surprise, but appreciating her distress, he stifled it at once. “Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl who couldn’t dance.”

“Well, you have now. I’m terrible.”

“I doubt that—unless you never learned?”

“My mother taught me the waltz, as well as a few reels and quadrilles when I was a little girl, but she died when I was ten.”

“But you know how?”

“After a fashion.”

He ignored that rather dampening reply. “Then this is an easy problem to solve. Just tell me which reels and quadrilles your mother taught you, and I’ll make certain the ball committee only chooses those. And I’ll have them put in plenty of waltzes. Everyone always wants more waltzes at a ball anyway.”

“I’ve never been to a ball, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Never? Not a dance of any kind?” Max was appalled. What sort of upbringing had this girl had, in heaven’s name? And what about her step-uncle, the baron? Hadn’t he ever bothered to invite her to such entertainments?

He had no time to ponder these questions, however, before she spoke again. “They had these dances at school. The matrons would arrange them with the tutors at Eton for the end of each term. The boys would come over, and there would be games, dancing, and supper afterward.”

He made a face. “I remember those affairs.”

“You went to Eton?”

“No, Harrow, but these events are all pretty much the same, I expect. Deuced awkward.”

“To say the least.” She paused, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “Look, you might as well know that I was a hopeless wallflower at those affairs. I only danced,” she added, lifting her chin, “when well-meaning matrons shoved unwilling boys in my face.”

Max studied her, noting the proud tilt of her head and the rigid set of her shoulders, and he had no idea what to say. Pity was something that she would not welcome, nor would it do her any good. “If it helps,” he said at last, “most people find those school dances to be a nightmare. As for being a wallflower,” he added gently, “I doubt the boys were unwilling for any reason other than a fear of getting their toes smashed.”

“Even so, does it matter?”

“Hell, yes, it matters. Any girl can waltz if her partner can lead. Boys of that age,” he added as she gave a sound of disbelief, “aren’t always very good at it.”

She smiled a little. “I doubt that had anything to do with turning the wrong way during a reel or quadrille and messing up the whole show.”

“But didn’t you practice your dancing at school?”

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