Chapter 225
“Ow!” He winces.
“I’m so sorry!” I freeze in place, mortified.
Madame Laurent stops the music with a dramatic sigh. “Miss. Willford, you’re thinking too much with your head and not enough
with your body.”
“What does that even mean?” I mutter. “I’m not a dancer. I’m an artist. I spend my days alone in studios with paint on my hands,
not waltzing around ballrooms.”
“Perhaps that’s the problem,” Arthur says suddenly. “When you paint, you’re in your own world, right? Just you and the canvas.”
I nod, not sure where he’s going with this.
“But right now, you’re hyper–aware of Madame Laurent watching you, of me leading you, of your parents‘ expectations…” He reaches up and loosens his tie. “What if we eliminated some of those distractions?”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s slipping the tie from around his neck and stepping behind me. “Do you trust me?” he asks
softly.
“Of course,” I answer without hesitation.
He places the silk tie over my eyes, tying it securely at the back of my head. The world goes dark, and suddenly, all I can sense is Arthur–his scent, the warmth of his body close to mine, the gentle pressure of his hands guiding me back into position.
“What is the meaning of this?” Madame Laurent sputters.
Arthur simply takes his position again, and the sensation of his warm hand settling on my waist is even more intoxicating than usual with one of my senses blocked out. “Start the music, please.”
There’s a moment of silence, then the waltz begins again. I’m tense at first, terrified of stumbling blindly across the dance floor.
“Relax,” Arthur murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “Don’t think about the steps. Feel them through me. Pretend we’re in the living room, dancing to a vinyl record.”
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer. His other hand holds mine securely. Without my sight, these points of contact become my entire world–the way his chest moves as he breathes, the way his feet shift against the floor, the sound of
low voice softly humming to the music.
For a moment, I can picture it; our quiet apartment in the middle of the night, the gentle flickering of a candle, the crick chirping outside the window.
Home.
And then, somehow, I’m dancing. Really dancing, not just mechanically counting steps. My body follows his as we’re two parts
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Chapter 225
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of the same organism. When he turns, I turn. When he steps back, I follow forward. It’s like the blindfold has shut down the
overthinking part of my brain and allowed my body to take over, and, oh, how wonderful it feels.
“Yes!” Madame Laurent cries out. “Magnificent! Keep going!”
Arthur leads me through spins and turns that I would never have managed with my eyes open. There’s a freedom in this darkness, like surrendering to the familiarity of his body–the familiarity that neither of us lost, not even once, after five years
apart.
The music swells, and Arthur’s movements become more dramatic. He dips me low, one hand strong against my back, then pulls
me up into a tight spin that leaves me dizzy and giggling. As the final notes approach, he guides me through a series of quick, intricate steps that I execute perfectly.
With a flourish, he spins me out, then pulls me,back in as the music reaches its crescendo. The momentum brings me crashing
against his chest, and at the same moment, the blindfold–loosened by all our movement–slips from my eyes and falls to the
floor.
The world rushes back, but all I can see is Arthur. His green eyes, his dark hair with that one dastardly curl free from its
restraints. His arm is still wrapped tightly around my waist, holding me so close I can feel his heart pounding in time with mine.
We’re both breathing hard, our faces mere inches apart. His eyes drop to my lips, and I feel a familiar flutter in my stomach.
“There,” he whispers. “You’re a natural.”
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