He clasped her fingers tightly. “Not like the dancing you do.”
“Nothing like the dancing we do. Our dancing is for show. For circumstance. A way to show our plumage and hopefully find favor.” She stepped closer, near enough that if he lowered his chin, he might graze her forehead with his kiss. He resisted the urge. “Your dancing was for fun.”
“I wish I could dance,” he whispered, as she looked up to him. “I would dance with you.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you wish.”
“By the fire in your home?” The whisper nearly slew him with memory and want.
“In another place. Another time. If we were other people.”
She smiled, sadness in the expression, and slid her left hand up to his shoulder, placing her right hand in his. “What about here? Now?” He wished they weren’t wearing gloves. He wished he could feel her touch as well as her heat. He wished a great many things as they moved, slowly, circling in slow time to the music spilling into the darkness.
After long moments, he pressed his lips to her curls and spoke. “I’ve watched you dance a dozen times . . . and I’ve been jealous of every single one of your partners.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“I have stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching you, Poseidon watching Amphitrite.”
She pulled back to look at him, tilting her head in question. He smiled. “I, too, know about Poseidon.”
“More than I do, apparently.”
He returned his attention to their movements. “Amphitrite was a sea nymph, one of fifty, the opposite of the sirens . . . the saviors of the sea.” They turned, and her face was cast in the glow of the ballroom. She was watching him, “On a night in late summer, the nymphs gather on the island of Naxos and danced in the surf. Poseidon watched.”
Humor flooded her gaze. “I imagine he did.”
He grinned. “Can you blame him?”
“Go on,” she urged.
“He ignored all the Nereids, save one.”
“Amphitrite.”
“Is this my story or yours?” he teased.
“Oh, excuse me, sir,” she replied.
“He wanted her desperately. Came out of the sea, nude, and claimed her for himself. Vowed to love her with the passion of the surf, with the depth of the ocean, with the roar of the waves.”
She was not laughing anymore, and neither was he. Suddenly, the story seemed incredibly serious. “What happened?”
“She ran from him,” he said, the words soft and serious, punctuated by his kiss on her brow. “She ran to the farthest edge of the sea.”
She was silent for a long moment. “She was terrified of his power.”
“He wanted to share it with her. He followed, desperate for her, aching for her, refusing to rest until he found her. She was all he wanted. He was desperate to worship her, to marry her. To make her goddess of the sea.”
She was breathing heavily now, as was he, lost in the tale. “When he could not find her, he became lost, refusing to rule the sea without her by his side. He neglected his duties. The seas rose up, and storms devastated the islands of the Aegean Sea, and he could not bring himself to care.
“When Amphitrite realized what Poseidon had offered her, what she had refused, how he had searched, she wept for him. For the love he had for her. For his passion and desire. For what she had lost.” There were tears in Georgiana’s eyes now, the story taking on a new meaning. New power. “Her tears were so many that she wept herself into the ocean. She became the sea itself.”
“Lost to him, forever,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “No. With him, forever. His strong, tempestuous partner. His equal in every way. Without her, there is no him.”
The music in the ballroom stopped. He pulled back from her. “You run from me.”
“I don’t,” she said, and they both knew it was a lie. She pulled away, took several steps back, putting space between them. She tried again. “Yes. I do.”
“Why?”
She took a breath. Released it. “I run from you,” she said, sadness in her tone, “because if I didn’t, I would run to you. And that can never happen.”
He kissed her then, because he did not know what else to do, savoring her taste, beauty and life and scandal and sadness. It was the sadness that stopped him. That had him pulling back, waiting for her to speak.
“Who is Tremley to you?”
She surprised him with her directness. Of course, he should not have been surprised by her. She was not one to shy away from difficult conversation. “He came to me last night.”
He went cold at the words. Cold, and furious. “Why?”
“He nearly killed his wife. She fled to the club, searching for sanctuary.”
“Christ,” he said, falling back a few steps. “I did that.”
She met his gaze, anger and betrayal showing. “We. We did it.”
“Is she—”