Page 42 of Bookshop Cinderella

“You were definitely in need of a holiday.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I suppose I have to give you that one. Although I never would have agreed to any of this, if I’d known there would be dancing.”

“You dreamed of dancing with princes once upon a time,” he reminded her. “I’m not a prince, I know, so practicing with me will be a bit of a comedown for you, but nonetheless...”

His voice trailed away. He straightened away from the worktable with purposeful intent, and as she watched him circle around it, she realized the moment she’d been dreading was at hand. “I doubt we have time for much of a lesson now,” she murmured. “You haven’t even finished eating, and—”

“Oh, no, no,” he said, cutting off her pathetic attempt to evade the inevitable. “This equivocation will not do, Evie. We must practice our dance steps.”

“But what about the food?” It was a feeble excuse, and she knew it.

He knew it, too. “We can dine between dances,” he told her, picking up the plate. “C’mon.”

Plate of canapés in hand, he started for the door, and she knew she could stall no longer. She followed him to the end of the corridor, up a flight of stairs, through a green baize door, and along another corridor. They finally emerged into a large foyer at the top of what seemed to be the house’s main staircase. Evie couldn’t see much, for the duke had lit only enough gas jets to guide their way, but in the dim light, she could make out inset panels painted with landscapes, ancient but luxurious Turkish rugs, and an enormous crystal chandelier, unlit, over her head.

The white plasterwork and sheet-covered furnishings lent a mysterious, ghostly appearance to the place, but despite that, she could easily imagine London’s most fashionable and influential people—the men in elegant white tie like the duke, the ladies in some of the luscious creations she’d seen at Vivienne the day before—coming up the elaborate wrought iron staircase to attend a party or ball. For herself, however, it was harder to form the picture. The people in her mind’s eye had been born into this environment. Like the duke, they belonged here, while she, in her plain white blouse, dark skirt, and necktie, was firmly entrenched in the genteel poverty of Wellington Street.

In agreeing to this holiday, she’d known she would be entering an entirely different world, but even as she’d checked into the opulent Savoy Hotel, even as she had eaten the rich cuisine of the famous Escoffier and chosen beautiful frocks from the fashionable Vivienne, Evie hadn’t appreciated just how alien her holiday world would prove to be.

Now, however, as the duke led her into an enormous ballroom of gold and white, with an intricate parquet floor, dozens of gilt-framed mirrors, and a domed ceiling at least thirty feet high, the contrast between her life and that of her companion could not have been more stark, and she was more convinced than ever that when the time came for the duke’s ball, when all of those fashionable people in her imagination became real, when they were staring at her with the same disdain as the gargoyles on the gate outside, she was going to make an utter fool of herself and justify all their expectations. Her fantasy to triumph over Freddie Maybridge and his friends, her need to face the past and put it behind her, her wish to have a more fulfilling, interesting life in the future—it all seemed ridiculous now.

Westbourne was watching her, smiling a little, and she forced herself to say something. “Goodness,” she muttered with another glance around before returning her attention to him, “I didn’t realize aristocrats were so vain.”

“Vain?” His smile gave way to a puzzled look. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“All these mirrors. What are they for? To admire yourselves or each other?”

He chuckled. “Sound logic either way, but that’s not the reason.”

“No?”

“They’re to reflect light and make the room seem brighter, a holdover from the days of candles.” He gestured to a magnificent Berliner gramophone nearby. “Are you ready?”

The sight of it, and the stack of gramophone records on a narrow, sheet-covered table beside it, caused all of Evie’s apprehensions to return. “I should be asking you that,” she quipped shakily.

“Have some faith in me, Evie. I told you before, I’m quick on my feet.” He turned, setting the plate of canapés beside the stack of records, then he pulled the top record off the stack and slid the disk from its paper jacket.

Intrigued despite her nervous jitters, she moved to stand beside him. “Aren’t gramophone records made of glass?” she asked, studying the disk he was holding carefully between his palms. “This one is black.”

“The newest ones are made of shellac,” he explained, placing the record on the gramophone’s turntable. “A bit less likely to break, I’m told.”

“What—” She broke off and took a deep breath. “What are we dancing to?”

“I thought we’d try a waltz first.” He turned the crank on the side of the machine and pushed the switch to set the turntable in motion. “A waltz doesn’t require you to remember specific figures or steps. And besides,” he went on as he placed the stylus needle on the edge of the now-spinning disk, “you’re already familiar with the music, no doubt.”

Unlike him, Evie had every doubt, but the first notes that floated from the gramophone’s enormous tortoiseshell horn proved him right. “The Blue Danube,” she said. “I think one would have to have lived their entire life in a cave not to recognize that melody.”

“All right, then,” he said, turning toward her, “let’s see what else you know. May I have this dance?”

She stared at his outstretched hand for a moment—the long, strong fingers, the casually rolled-back cuff, the mature, sinewy muscles of his forearm, and it was such a contrast to the reluctant boys shoved at her in her school days that she felt oddly reassured. Until she took his hand.

The contact of his bare skin against hers was startling, for she hadn’t held hands with anyone—not bare hands, anyway—since she was a small girl, when she and Rory would walk hand in hand to Brown’s Ice Cream Parlor for a penny lick.

This, she appreciated as the warmth of the duke’s touch penetrated her skin, rippled up her arm, and spread through her remaining limbs, was completely different.

He led her to the center of the vast ballroom, and though she hadn’t danced in over a decade, her body moved automatically into the proper position, facing him the correct distance apart, her free hand coming to rest on his right shoulder, just as she’d been taught. “This part is easy to remember,” she said, laughing to cover her nervousness as he put his free hand against her back.

He didn’t seem to agree with her memory, however, for he shook his head. “You’re too far away.”

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