Page 44 of Bookshop Cinderella

Desperate to avoid treading on his feet for the third time, she overcompensated, pitching sideways with enough force to pull her hand from his grasp.

She would have fallen, but his arm came fully around her back, encircling her waist and catching her up, hauling her body hard against his.

Time seemed to stop. Her toes barely touching the floor, her torso pressed to his, Evie felt suspended in space. His eyes seemed to darken as she looked into them, turning from blue to black, making the pupils indiscernible. His arm was like a steel band across her back, she had no air in her lungs, and she wondered wildly if he was going to let her go or hold her imprisoned like this forever.

His lashes lowered, as if he were wondering the same, and she felt a jolt of panic that had nothing to do with dancing. Along with that panic, however, Evie also felt a faint, unmistakable thrill.

But then, he eased her down, and relief washed over her—relief and something else, something vague and hard to define. It might have been...disappointment.

Feeling two such contradictory emotions simultaneously made no sense, and she was impelled to break the silence.

“Well, at least I didn’t step on your toes this time,” she said, trying to sound flippant, but her words came out in a breathless rush, quite spoiling the effect.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice. “I think perhaps we need a different approach.” Letting her go, he stepped back, tilting his head as he looked at her. “I just wish I knew what it was.”

“I told you I was terrible,” she reminded him with a sigh. “You just didn’t believe me.”

“Stuff,” he contradicted at once. “None of that. By the night of the ball, you’ll be flying around the ballroom as if your feet have wings. But until we get there,” he added as she made a sound of disbelief, “I think we need some additional help.”

“Help? You mean more people?” Feeling more awkward and self-conscious than ever, she tried to smile. “I thought you wanted me to relax.”

“I do. And I might have an idea to help that along.” Abruptly, he turned and started for the doors leading out of the ballroom. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Evie watched him walk away, and the craven thought crossed her mind that during his absence she might have time to make her escape. Out the way she’d come, up Green Street and onto Park Lane, she could be halfway to the cab stand by the Marble Arch before—

“And no running off while I’m gone,” he added over his shoulder as if reading her mind. “You’re going to see this through.”

“Oh, very well,” she said crossly, her hopes dashed. “But I shan’t feel any pangs of conscience when you are icing your feet tomorrow and cursing my name.”

He merely laughed, the wretch, and vanished out the door.

Evie couldn’t imagine what sort of help he had in mind, but when he returned a few minutes later, her apprehension gave way to an exclamation of happy surprise. “Is that champagne?”

“It is. A Clicquot ’88. A pity it’s not iced,” he went on as he set the glasses on the table by the gramophone and began to open the bottle, “but it’s cold enough from the cellars to be drinkable.”

“Far be it from me to argue with a duke about the quality of his champagne,” she said as she came to his side, “but I’m not sure how getting drunk will help my dancing ability. I would think the opposite to be true.”

“You won’t be drinking enough to get drunk,” he assuredas he popped the cork and began to pour. “I shan’t allow it. But one glass will relax you and improve your dancing.”

She leaned closer, watching as the sparkling wine foamed up to the rim of each glass, then receded. “I shall have to take you at your word, since I’ve never had champagne in my life.”

That seemed to take him aback, for he stopped pouring. “Never?” he asked, turning his head to give her a doubtful look. “Evie, you have been deprived of one of life’s greatest joys.”

He set aside the bottle, handed her a filled glass, and took up his own. “To your first pâté, your first champagne, and the much better dancing that is sure to follow.”

She clinked her glass against his, then took a tentative sip, not sure what to expect, but as the wine bubbled and danced on her tongue, she laughed with delight.

“Like it, I gather?” he asked, laughing with her.

“It’s lovely!” she cried and lifted her glass for a second toast. “To making up for lost time,” she declared and took another hefty swallow.

“Whoa, there, tigress,” he cautioned, his free hand closing over her glass to stop her. “I told you I was not going to let you get drunk. Don’t prove me a liar.”

Letting go of her hand, he reached behind him and plucked another canapé off the plate. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Eat that and at least one more while you sip that champagne. Then we’ll try again.”

She obeyed, though she still didn’t see how any of this was going to help. When she had finished, he took away her glass, restarted the music, and grasped her hand.

“Ready?” Without waiting for an answer, without escorting her to the center of the room, and without even counting off, he started, pulling her with him so fast, she had no time to think.

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