The Dance Before Christmas. Victoria Alexander

He really was a fine figure of a man. “When a man holds a woman in his arms and moves in concert with the music filling the air—filling their souls—it’s entirely possible to forget the rest of the world. To ignore everything except the feeling of moving as one, in perfect harmony, one body with another.” His gaze locked with hers. “It is at that moment that the idea of where a single dance could lead might occur to both parties. Is it no more than a pleasant interlude? Or is it a beginning? A promise perhaps of something new and wonderful and possibly forever.”

      “What utter nonsense.” She stared up at him, her voice annoyingly breathless, no doubt due to the exertions of the waltz and not the look in his eyes or the faint spicy scent of him or the nearness of his body. “Is that from a play?”

      “No, simply my own thoughts.” He chuckled. “I do have them, you know. Not everything I say is written by someone else.”

      Heat flushed up her face. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to imply—”

      “That I didn’t have a brain in my head?”

      “No, that was not my intention,” she said weakly.

      He chuckled and led her through a perfect turn. She wasn’t sure she’d ever danced with anyone for the first time quite so effortlessly. As if they had danced together always. It was rather disconcerting.

      “I will, however, confess that the sentiment about the dangerous nature of dance is not mine alone. Didn’t your Jane Austen write that to be fond of dancing was a certain step toward falling in love?”

      “I don’t recall,” she said in a lofty manner. “You read Jane Austen?”

      “I read many things.” He paused. “Needless to say, I’m particularly fond of Shakespeare, but I enjoy Austen, as well as Mr. Dickens and Monsieur Dumas and—should I go on?”

      “No, that’s quite enough. And I like Mr. Dickens and Monsieur Dumas as well, but I adore Monsieur Verne.”

      “Do you?”

      “You sound surprised.”

      “I am.” He chuckled. “My sisters are much fonder of romantic novels than they are stories of adventure.”

      “I like romantic novels, as well,” she said coolly. “Enjoying one does not mean you can’t enjoy the other.”

      “But Verne is rather, oh, intense, I would say. Especially for the fairer sex.”

      She stared at him and then laughed. “Goodness, Wesley, do you think women are so easily led they are inclined to jump into a balloon at any minute to travel the globe because they’ve just read Around the World in Eighty Days?”

      He had the good grace to look chagrined. “No, of course not.” He smiled ruefully. “My apologies, Anabel. That might have been one of the stupidest things I’ve ever said.”

      “I do like a man who admits when he’s being stupid.”

      He laughed.

      Wesley Grant was going to be far more enjoyable than she had expected. And he didn’t really seem like an actor. At least not the ones she had encountered, which admittedly were no more than a handful. The few professional actors she had met were far more interested in themselves than in anyone else. Wesley really hadn’t said much about himself at all and he did seem to be genuinely interested in what she had to say. He was more intelligent than she had anticipated as well, which wasn’t at all fair of her. His profession did not preclude intelligence.

      She drew a deep breath and smiled up at him. “I do hope you can forgive me if I implied you were less than—”

      “There’s nothing to forgive.” He smiled down at her, tiny dimples bracketing his lips. “Misunderstandings are bound to happen between lovers—”

      She sucked in a hard breath. “Good God, Wesley, we are not—” her voice dropped to whisper “—lovers. Nor do I want anyone to think we are! Why, I would be ruined. My reputation...”

      The expression on his face was nothing less than angelic, overly innocent and entirely too smug. His eyes, however, danced with laughter.

      She narrowed her eyes. “You should know right now, I do not like to be teased.”

      “And yet I find teasing you to be most enjoyable.”

      “Well, I don’t like it.”

      “And does your perfect suitor do everything you want? Has he no mind of his own?”

      “He doesn’t do things to annoy me.” She summoned a pleasant smile. It wouldn’t do to have anyone think they were having anything less than a romantic moment.

      “Does Mr. Reed?”

      “Douglas?” She scoffed. “No, of course not.”

      “I see.”

      “I daresay, you don’t see anything at all. And I would appreciate you keeping in mind that I am paying you for your services and therefore—”

      “There is no therefore, Anabel. I shall play this role as I see fit,” he said firmly, “and I have no doubt you’ll be delighted with the result.”

      It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping open. The nerve of the man! Who did he think he was? For the first time in her nearly twenty-one years, Anabel had no idea what to say.

      The music drew to a close. Wesley released her and stepped back with a show of obvious reluctance. Admittedly, it was rather perfect.

      He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. “You are paying me to be passionately in love with you. At least until the day after Christmas.” He smiled. “I assure you, you will not regret it.”

      “I don’t intend to.” She couldn’t seem to stop staring at him. Her inner voice was right—this was a dangerous man. Still, it was only an act.

      He released her hand and the oddest sense of loss stabbed her. “Isn’t it time I met your father?”

      She gestured across the room. “He’s over there, I think, fuming that Aunt Lillian isn’t here tonight.” Anabel wouldn’t know anything about anything if it weren’t for Aunt Lillian. She took his arm and they started around the perimeter of the dance floor. “She was my mother’s sister-in-law. My mother died when I was very young and my aunt was widowed several years ago. She and Father are not overly fond of each other, but I’ve always thought she was wonderful.”

      “Tell me more. The more I know about you, the more real our charade will appear.” He stopped midstep. “Where did we meet?”

      She thought for a moment. Damn it all, she hadn’t even considered this kind of detail. “I don’t know. The British Museum?”

      “Excellent.” He nodded in obvious surprise.

      “Apparently I’m not the only one jumping to conclusions about the other.” They headed toward her father. “My being pretty does not mean I’m shallow. It does not preclude my being clever and interested in things other than fashion and gossip.”

      He smiled but said nothing. Wise of him.

      “Have you considered what happens after Christmas?”

      “We go our separate ways, admitting we were not meant to be together after all.” She shrugged. “It’s as simple as that.”

      “Is it?” he murmured.

      It was really only in her mind, but it did seem the crowd parted as they approached her father. She shook her head to clear it. Father stood, talking with several other gentlemen and Mrs. Higginbotham. Mrs. Higginbotham and Father had been friends since their youth. Fortunately, Douglas was nowhere to be seen.

      “Father.” Anabel tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and stepped away from the group, and their discussion continued without him.