Soon she would probably need to ask for permission before doing something so daring as dancing in public; she felt her mouth curve downwards.
She could refuse the match, of course. This was not some medieval drama where she would be bound and dragged down the aisle, whether she agreed to the union or not. She adored the simple life she had begun to carve out for herself here in London but of course she knew it was not allowed for a member of royalty to take a paid job. She was not meant for such blissful normality as being a teaching assistant, much as she had been delighted to be offered the position. She had a duty to serve the people of Monteverre.
She ordered a white wine, not feeling confident enough to order anything else. She occasionally drank a glass with dinner, but never more. Alcohol dulled her senses in a way that simply did not appeal to her orderly nature. She sipped slowly, feeling slightly at sea amidst the raucous dancing and groupings of people. Mingling had never been a forte of hers. The word itself made her feel twitchy. She remembered herself as a young girl, wishing she was more confident, more natural at being a princess. She had always felt so different to her older sisters, the stereotypical mousy wallflower to their flame-haired beauty. And then one day everything had changed and she had simply stopped trying. She had found comfort in blending into the background where it was safer, where no one looked too closely at her...
You came here to feel free and here you are, hiding in the corner feeling sorry for yourself. She bit her lip hard, swirling the golden liquid in her glass and watching the light play on the surface. She became suddenly aware of a shadow in the reflection of the glass and the delicious scent of a warm, distinctly male cologne.
She looked up.
Goodness...
Tall, dark and handsome simply did not describe the man standing a mere foot away from her. This man was broad, exotic and breathtaking. She swallowed hard as dark, hooded eyes met hers. He didn’t make a move to speak and after a long moment her awkward nature interfered, her voice trembling slightly as she asked, ‘Can I help you?’
His expression changed fleetingly to one of mild surprise, making her wonder if he had mistaken her for someone else. His gaze moved down to take in her long legs crossed on the high barstool before returning to her face. She half hoped he had made a mistake, then perhaps he would leave and she might be able to breathe normally again.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ He gestured to the empty barstool beside her. His voice was a deep accented rumble.
‘No. I’m here alone,’ she said quickly, then worried if that made her seem a little bit needy. ‘I mean, the seat is yours. If you want it, that is. It’s...not mine, either way.’ She felt her cheeks heat. She was a babbling idiot.
A tension-filled silence followed and the stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly as though he were waiting for her to say something more. A strange bewildered expression crossed his face as he moved to sit back onto a barstool, leaving the seat between them empty.
Cressida frowned, one hand idly tracing the edge of her glass as she shot a sidelong glance towards the mysterious hunk. Nipping at her bottom lip with her teeth, she took a slow sip of her wine to cool her suddenly dry throat. He was handsome, there was no denying it, with warm mahogany-toned skin and jet black stubble shadowing his jawline.
The shadow that began on his jawline continued down a strong throat to disappear into the open collar of a perfect white shirt. A white shirt that covered the broadest shoulders she had ever seen...
She moved her gaze back up to find a pair of dark eyes watching her. Startled, she inhaled sharply and promptly breathed in a mouthful of wine. Her throat convulsed in a series of loud embarrassing coughs and she was vaguely aware of a napkin appearing in her peripheral vision. She prayed her eye make-up hadn’t run and silently willed the dark stranger to disappear so that she didn’t have to continue her embarrassment any longer.
She froze as he placed a glass of water into her hands, the heat of his fingers scorching her skin for a few short seconds. The cold water calmed both her raw throat and her overheated brain.
Cressida looked up to find he had moved to the seat directly beside her. This close, she could see tiny flecks of gold in his deep brown irises. The way he was looking at her so intently made her feel as though she had walked under a spotlight. She was too warm, too exposed.
‘Thank you,’ she blurted, forcing herself to meet his eyes. ‘For the water.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ His eyes did not leave hers. ‘However, I believe it is now irresponsible of me to leave you unsupervised while you finish your drink.’
‘I must seem quite ridiculous, really.’ Cressida half laughed, feeling rather blinded under the intense spotlight of his attention.
‘That’s the last word I would use,’ he said silkily, tilting his head to one side.
She managed a slight smile, wondering again why he had chosen to sit with her. Men like him did not show interest in women like her; it was hard not to be suspicious. Not that she was here seeking male attention; far from it. Tonight was simply about freedom, she reminded herself with a firm shrug of her shoulders.
‘I find myself wondering...’ his dark voice rumbled somewhere close to her ear ‘...what might have brought you here tonight to this particular club?’
Cressida felt the vibration of his deep voice travel down to her toes. She shifted in her seat. ‘The same reason as everyone else, I assume. It’s an escape.’
‘You are looking to escape something?’
‘If I say the outside world, is that rather a cliché?’ She grimaced with a half laugh, feeling herself relax slightly. ‘I must go back eventually, of course.’
He seemed thoughtful for a moment. ‘While you are here, what do you plan to do?’
‘I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.’ She laughed, shocked at how feminine she sounded. ‘I’m trying to be spontaneous for once. Perhaps I might dance?’
‘Alone?’
‘If no one asked me, I suppose I would have to dance alone.’ It was hardly a suggestive statement, but still she felt herself blush a little, knowing she suddenly wanted him to ask her to dance. What on earth had come over her?
She had never flirted with a man before—she wasn’t even sure if this qualified as flirting—but it definitely felt different to any previous conversations with a member of the opposite sex. What was she even doing? She was promised to another man, both morally and legally. She might not have met her fiancé yet, but she still knew where the boundaries stood. But a simple dance...that was hardly improper. Maybe it was the wine, though she knew herself that two sips could hardly provide enough stimulant. It was becoming intoxicating, feeling so free. That was the only explanation. It was making her feel different, bolder.