Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3)(63)

“You didn’t trust me.”

“But it felt like I was going to—”

“You have to let me do it.” One of his hands moved up and down her back. “I can read your body. I can feel just before your balance falters, and I can tell how to compensate.” His face lowered over hers, and his free hand came up to caress her cheek. “Move with me,” he said softly. “Feel the signals I’m giving you. It’s a matter of letting our bodies communicate. Will you try to relax and do that for me?”

His touch on her skin . . . that low, velvety voice . . . it seemed to ease every tight place inside her. The knots of fear and resentment melted into fluid warmth. As they took up the position again, it started to feel like they were working together, striving for a common goal.

It felt like a partnership.

Through one waltz after another, they negotiated through various difficulties. Was a turn easier this way or that? Was it better if they made the steps longer or more compact? Perhaps it was Pandora’s imagination, but the turns weren’t making her quite as dizzy and disoriented as they had at first. It seemed as if the more she did them, the more her body became accustomed.

It was annoying whenever Gabriel praised her . . . good girl . . . yes, that’s perfect . . . and it was even more annoying that the words made her flush with gratification. She felt herself surrendering by gradual degrees, focusing on the subtle pressures of his hands and arms. There were a few remarkably satisfying moments when their steps matched exactly. There were also moments of near-disaster, when she lost the measure and Gabriel fixed the break in their rhythm. He was a superb dancer, of course, skilled at managing his partner and timing their steps. “Relax,” he would murmur every now and then. “Relax.”

Gradually Pandora’s brain quieted and she stopped straining to oppose the rushing, wheeling scenery and the constant deceptive sensation of falling. She let herself trust him. It wasn’t that she was enjoying the experience, exactly . . . but it was an interesting feeling to be so completely out of control and yet realize at the same time that she was safe.

Gabriel’s steps slowed before he brought them both to a full stop, lowering their clasped hands. The music had ceased.

Pandora looked up into Gabriel’s smiling eyes. “Why are we stopping?”

“The dance is over. We just completed a three-minute waltz with no problems.” He pulled her close. “You’ll have to find another excuse for sitting in corners now,” he said near her good ear. “Because you can waltz.” A pause. “But I’m still not giving your slipper back.”

Pandora was very still, unable to take it in. No words would come, not even a syllable. It was as if some huge smothering curtain had been drawn back to reveal another side of the world, a view of places she’d never known existed.

Clearly puzzled by her silence, Gabriel loosened his arms and looked down at her with those eyes like a clear winter morning, while a tawny lock of hair slid over his forehead.

In that moment, Pandora realized it would kill her not to have him. She might actually expire of heartbreak. She was becoming someone new, with him—they were becoming something together—and nothing was going to turn out the way she’d expected. Kathleen had been right—whatever she chose, it wouldn’t be perfect. She would have to lose something.

But no matter what else she gave up, this man was the thing she couldn’t lose.

She burst into tears. Not dainty, feminine tears, but a messy, red-faced explosion of sobs. The most terrible, beautiful, stunning feeling she’d ever known had come crashing over her in a huge wave, and she was drowning in it.

Gabriel stared at her with alarm, fumbling in his coat pocket for a handkerchief. “No, no . . . you weren’t supposed to . . . my God, Pandora, don’t do that. What is it?” He mopped at her face until she took the handkerchief from him and blew her nose, her shoulders shaking. As he continued to hover and ask worried questions, Phoebe left the piano and came to them.

Keeping Pandora folded deeply in his embrace, Gabriel cast a distracted glance at his sister. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” he muttered.

Phoebe shook her head and reached up to ruffle his hair fondly. “Nothing’s wrong, lunkhead. You came into her life like a lightning strike. Anyone would feel a bit scorched.”

Pandora was only dimly aware of Phoebe leaving the drawing room. When the storm of tears had ebbed enough that she could bring herself to look up at Gabriel, she was caught in his transfixed stare.

“You’re crying because you want to marry me,” he said. “Is that it?”

“No.” A hiccupping sob escaped her. “I’m crying because I don’t want to not marry you.”

Gabriel drew in a sharp breath. His mouth came down over hers in a kiss so rough that it almost hurt. As he searched her hungrily, his entire body vibrated with thrills.

Breaking the kiss, Pandora put her hands on his cheeks, and stared at him woefully. “Wh-what rational woman would ever want a husband who looks like you?”

He took her mouth again, fierce and demanding. She closed her eyes, surrendering in a dark half-swoon of pleasure.

Eventually Gabriel’s head lifted and he asked huskily, “What’s wrong with my looks?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re too handsome. Other women will flirt and try to attract your attention, and chase after you forever.”