The Dance Before Christmas. Victoria Alexander

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       CHAPTER TWO

      THE MOMENT THEY stepped into the ballroom festooned with swags of evergreens, ivy and holly accented with red ribbons and model ships, maps and globes, Mr. Grant—Wesley—swept her onto the dance floor. It was an excellent way to show the world how fascinating they found each other without being too obvious about it. The way he gazed into her eyes and led her flawlessly around the floor, it was almost hard for her to believe they were not smitten with one another.

      It was absurd of course, as they had only just met and he was an actor. He was simply pretending and so was she. Besides, the very idea that she could develop feelings for an actor was ridiculous. She was not destined to be the wife of an actor, nor was she as enamored of the theater as some of her friends were. She was not the sort of female to swoon over a handsome man spouting well-written verse on a stage. Father would never approve, and as much as they differed on any number of topics, in this she would have to agree with him.

      But good Lord, Wesley Grant was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Devilishly handsome and just a touch disheveled. As if he had been slightly mussed getting out of a carriage and was not nearly so vain as to worry about it.

      “Are you staring at me, Anabel?”

      “I am gazing adoringly at you.”

      His gaze slipped from her eyes to her lips and back. “You’re making an excellent job of it.”

      Was it her imagination or was his voice a shade deeper than before? More intense perhaps? Silly idea, of course.

      “You dance quite well, Mr. Grant.”

      “I believe that’s Mr. Everheart to you, or rather Wesley.” He grinned down at her. “You sound surprised.”

      “Not at all. I would expect you to be well trained in all manner of stagecraft.”

      “You should see me in a sword fight.” He led her effortlessly through a complicated turn.

      With his broad shoulders and his firm hand clasping hers, she had no doubt Wesley Grant did a great many things well.

      “I would think that would be far more dangerous than dancing.”

      “Not if you know what you’re doing.” His blue eyes brimmed with amusement. “But dancing can be just as dangerous.”

      “Oh?” She gazed up at him. Aunt Lillian had certainly not exaggerated the man’s appearance. His dark hair, deep blue eyes and strong jaw made him look very much as if he had stepped straight from one of her romantic novels. “Do tell, Mr. Everheart—Wesley, how can dancing be dangerous?”

      He laughed. “I suspect you already know the answer to that.”

      “Pretend I don’t.”

      “Do you really want an answer or are you just making idle conversation?”

      “Both.” Although she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hear his answer. A voice in the back of her head warned that the deception she was engaging in might be far more complicated than she had previously imagined. Even a bit dangerous. A tiny frisson of excitement skated up her spine. Anabel had never been confronted with danger, but she had never backed away from anything in her life before either. Handling Wesley Grant might well be a greater challenge than she had anticipated.

      “Very well.” He pulled her closer—not enough to be truly improper but a significant distance to anyone watching. 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.”