Slowly lifting a resigned gaze to his, Julia brought her fingertips to rest upon his coat sleeve, allowing him to escort her onto the dance floor. She moved with all the speed of a person who made the march to the gallows, and despite himself, Harris felt a wry grin forming on his lips. “With all your enthusiasm, you’re hardly good for my self-esteem, Julia.”
She snorted. “I hardly think a gentleman such as you would require any sense of validation from one such as me,” she said as they continued the walk to the middle of the room.
From one such as her…
“Do you think I’d treat you somehow different because of what your experience has been?” he asked when they stopped their walk. Was her opinion of him so low? And yet, what grounds had he given her to think anything different when he’d challenged her at every turn?
She stared at his cravat, her lashes unmoving, her gaze locked upon those folds. “No,” she said softly, her voice faraway. Then, as if she remembered herself, she blinked. “I don’t believe that, but neither am I so naïve as to believe that you could possibly wish to,” she said matter-of-factly.
The lady couldn’t be any more wrong. Ever since the carriage ride, he’d been able to think of nothing but her; yearning for her. Harris reached for her hand once more to guide her fingers upon his sleeve, but she drew them quickly back.
She remained with her long limbs at her sides. “You don’t need to do this, Harris.” Her voice was faintly entreating. “I’m sure there’s any number of things you’d rather be doing than… than… this.”
“Actually, there isn’t.” The moment he’d arrived and found her there, the only thing he’d wanted to do was take her in his arms. He held her gaze. “I want to dance with you, Julia,” he murmured, softly near her ear.
She grimaced. “I’ll have you know what I’m doing here is not dancing.” She gave a discreet gesture to the little fellow, who was tapping his timepiece and watching them. “Mr. Dour has informed me.”
He strangled on his laugh. “Mr. Dour?” he asked, drawing an answering laugh.
“I am not being rude. It is his name.”
“And a suitable one at that. I can’t imagine a more pinch-faced fellow than that one.”
They shared a laugh, and some of the tension left Julia’s narrow shoulders.
“What’s going on out there?” Lady Cowpen’s loud whisper to her friends reached across the ballroom.
“In fairness to Mr. Dour, I’m really quite dreadful.”
His lips twitched. “Are you always this honest?” Harris didn’t allow her a chance to answer. “Now, do not give Mr. Dour more credit than he’s due.” He held his hands aloft. “If you’re unable to dance, it merely means you’ve not had the right partner, Julia,” he murmured, and waited.
She dampened her mouth. That delicate slip of pink flesh darted out and traced a path along the seam of her lips.
She gave the slightest nod, and with that surrender, he settled his hand at her waist. His fingers curled reflexively upon her, the heat of her singeing his palm, and he drew her closer.
They’d been getting on so well. There’d not been any of the usual animosity or needling. Nay, just the opposite. It had been comfortable and wonderful. So much so that it had been so very easy—too easy—to forget that she was of an entirely different world and life than Harris’.
Until he’d gone and asked that question.
Are you always this honest?
That one single query, so innocuously directed at her, reminded her that Harris had been right about her from the start. She was an impostor. Granted, now with the permission of Her Grace, but an impostor nonetheless.
And oh, how very desperately she wished for it all to be real.
Julia’s entire heart and soul hurt. How ironic he should pose such a question to her when he’d been the one who’d been mistrustful from the start.
For it didn’t matter that she’d told the duchess all. It didn’t matter that Julia remained here, with the woman in full possession of the truth of her existence. It mattered what she didn’t say. To this man.
It shouldn’t matter. What he thought of her.
“Julia?” he asked with such a tender concern that it only made the hurt all the greater.
She forced herself to don a smile. “Should I have told you I’m a splendid dancer and have you discover my lie for yourself?”
“You could have made all your displeasure with me known by stomping all over my toes,” he pointed out, drawing a laugh from Julia, and the tension eased from her frame.
“See?” he murmured, confirming he’d teased to set her at ease and, in so doing, had proven he’d been correct after all at being more skilled in some ways than the man the duchess had hired to school Julia.
“I do,” she said softly. The haunting strains of the violin filled the ballroom, and she and Harris remained frozen, rooted to their spots on the dance floor, and as his gaze moved over her face, she followed the path his eyes took, matching the search he did of her. How had she believed him cold and unfeeling?
How, when he’d proven caring of the kindly ladies across the room and of the street waif she’d been when he’d come to her rescue? And the children of the Rookeries whom he’d helped…and Rose, the girl he’d offered employment to.
“Well, get on with it, boy,” one of the countesses shouted, and Julia and Harris jumped.
A half grin quirked his lips up at the corner, doing wild things to her heart’s rhythm. “Lest I find myself earning
