In My Wildest Dreams by Christina Dodd

ballroom where, only a few moments ago, dreams had been adrift. Now the musicsounded off key, the gold leaf seemed dull and overdone, and the moonlight did no more than reflect the light of the sun—as Mr. Throckmorton reflected the light of Ellery.
    Mr. Throckmorton took her glass and placed both his and hers on a table by the wall. Coming back to her, he extended his arms.
    She didn’t walk into them. It was too odd to think of dancing with, of all people, Mr. Throckmorton. He was too old, too solemn, too responsible. Everything Ellery was not.
    But neither was he indecisive, for when she hesitated, he gathered her to him. His arm wrapped around her waist, his hand caught her hand, and without giving her a moment to adjust to the sensation of being in his arms, he swept her away. He shouldn’t have been able to waltz. Businessmen shouldn’t be able to make the music come alive with motion. But while Mr. Throckmorton danced without flourishes or extravagance, his motions were elegant, his gait smooth. He led like a man used to leading—in every situation.
    She didn’t know what to do with her free hand. To touch his shoulder seemed an act of insolence, almost of intimacy. But although she battled the thought and scolded herself as silly, she still couldn’t bring herself to lift her palm up so far and hold him as comportment demanded he be held. Instead, she rested her hand against his upper arm . . . and discovered how his muscles flexed beneath her fingers.
    â€œThis is quite lovely.” His voice sounded smooth, rich, content, when she knew he must want to be back at the party, greeting the guests, supervising thearrangements, aware that every person he made happy was one more person who might someday do business with him. “My brother will be devastated to know he missed this.”
    She stared fixedly over his shoulder as the walls came closer, then whirled away.
    He dipped his head a bit to catch her gaze and asked in an incredulous tone, “You’re not angry at me for Ellery’s mishap?”
    She only glanced at him. “I can’t help but suspect . . .” She shouldn’t say anything, but what difference did it make? Mr. Throckmorton thought her a minx. And he had asked. “I can’t help but suspect that you managed to manipulate this convenient rash so Ellery wouldn’t be able to meet me here.”
    Laughter rumbled through him, and she felt it everywhere they touched—in the arm he had wrapped around her waist, beneath the fingertips she rested on his arm and oddly enough, in the pit of her stomach.
    â€œI appreciate your faith in me. But tell me, why would I disable my brother at his own betrothal party? Even if I wished to remove him from your sphere, it makes no sense to take him out of the reach of his fiancée—and he is out of reach of Lady Hyacinth. He fled to his room at the first onset of rash and is right now undoubtedly soaking in a tub of water and oatmeal.”
    Did he mean to give her such an unappealing vision? Dripping Ellery covered with tan lumps.
    â€œNo,” Mr. Throckmorton continued, “if I wished to get rid of you, I could do so with much less finesse.”
    â€œYou could, mayhap, toss me out on the street.”
    He appeared to give her plan due consideration. “I could. That’s the ultimate in lack of finesse.” He shookhis head. “Ellery would tell you it’s more my style to bribe you. I could offer you a thousand pounds per annum and your own house in Paris.”
    He was serious. She was sure he was! “A thousand pounds! You would have to wish to be rid of me very much to offer so much.”
    He shrugged.
    The muscles rippled beneath her palm again. In an effort to distance herself from the part of him that was so mobile, she slid her hand up to his shoulder.
    He seemed to take that as a signal of some kind of acquiescence and pulled her closer yet. He held