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On a sticky, hot summer night, the breeze welcoming and honeysuckle-scented, Emma Swan stood upon the balcony of her uncle Leopold’s new home. The music of a string quartet wafted from the stuffy ballroom behind her. A jaunty dance had just concluded, and the high-society crowd was busy with their polite applause and formal conversation. Not a single person inside, it seemed, was concerned with the young woman on the terrace.
She looked down into the gardens below, with the carefully-manicured topiaries flanking a trickling fountain. The water glistened below the starry night sky. Emma allowed her hip to rest against the railing and released a long breath.
From almost directly below the balcony, there was a soft hissing sound. Emma blinked and leaned a bit farther over the edge, her white-gloved hands gripping the marble cautiously.
“Hello?” She whispered, glancing around what seemed to be a completely abandoned garden.
“Hello,” came a reply, followed by a gentle rustling of the bushes. A young man stepped slowly out of the shrubbery and smiled up at her.
Emma’s breath caught in her chest. He was a handsome young man, to be sure. But his mere presence surprised her. Flummoxed, she cleared her throat. It was not within her recollection that she had ever been introduced to this particular gentleman. However, seeing as no one was around to witness their interaction, she dared to offer a polite smile and whispered down to him, directly this time.
“What are you doing down there?” She inquired, leaning down to get a better look at him. As he moved into the direct beam of moonlight below, she caught sight of his bright blue eyes and stubbled jaw.
The young man licked his lips slowly and smirked, “I saw a beautiful maiden upon the balcony and could not miss my opportunity to play the Romeo to her Juliet,” he gestured up toward her, a sparkle in his eye.
“Romeo, Romeo,” she scolded him playfully, rolling her eyes and smiling against her better judgment. “Or rather...what is your name, Romeo?”
“Killian Edward Fitzwilliam Jones, at your service, fair Juliet,” he bowed low, sweeping the gloved fingers of his left hand against the neatly-trimmed blades of grass below.
She knew, without a doubt, that he had an idea of who she was. This ball, after all, had been thrown in her honor. In fact, its sole intent was for her to find a rich husband. Not that she was particularly interested in such a thing. Hence her escape to the outdoors the very moment her dance card had cleared. She shifted her weight slightly, her ivory gown catching the moonlight. “Tell me, Mr. Jones,” she asked after a moment, standing to her full height and taking in a deep breath, “why is it that you took the opportunity to approach me from down there, instead of in the ballroom? Are not ballrooms meant for such introductions?”
“They are, Miss Swan,” he replied, confirming her suspicions, “however I am quite perceptive, and I felt I would leave a much more lasting impression upon you if I took a chance out of doors.”
“My uncle would consider this quite improper, you know,” she raised an eyebrow down at him. He lifted his own to match and chuckled softly.
“Shall I apply to him inside, then? Or would I merely be wasting my time?” he placed his hand upon his chest and cocked his head to the side, “Please tell me I would not be.”
Handsome, charming, and well-spoken. Emma was more intrigued than she had been all night. Letting her tongue slip out to wet her lips, she gave a shrug. “We shall see,” she teased and turned, walking calmly back into the stiflingly hot ballroom.
“Miss Swan,” the inquiries began again the very moment she entered the room, and Emma held back a sigh. With a polite smile, she took the offer for a dance. The young man was tall and wiry, with curly ginger hair and spectacles. He stepped upon her toes nearly four times throughout what seemed to be a never-ending symphony. As the dance ended, Emma dipped politely and turned, her gaze betraying her as she glanced around the still-full ballroom. She saw many a head of dark hair, but none of them seemed to be Mr. Jones, her curious suitor. Perhaps her coyness had scared him away?
A gentle touch at her elbow made her turn. Emma found herself looking up at her uncle Leopold. Her heart jumped within her chest as he spoke, “Emma, it’s good to see you enjoying yourself! May I present,” he gestured to the side and turned. The moment seemed an eternity as she waited for Mr. Jones to step into view, but found only an over-stuffed middle-aged widower with a very bad wig. Despite her better decorum, Emma’s smile must have faltered. The older man’s expression faded slightly and he bowed, as was polite, but made only small talk before excusing himself.
Emma slowly closed her eyes and knit her fingers together in front of her, bowing her head just slightly with utter embarrassment.
The ball seemed to continue for hours, dragging on without end. She considered a few glasses of wine to help her blur the clumsy dances, but refrained on fear of making even more of a spectacle of herself.
“Well, Emma,” Leopold smirked as he approached her once more, the room having begun to clear, “have you had a nice evening then?”
Knowing her uncle had put a great deal of money and effort into her ball, she smiled and gave a polite nod. “Yes, Uncle, thank you,” she took his hands into hers and squeezed them softly.
“I believe I have one final request,” he patted her gloved hands and cleared his throat loudly. “That is, if you can handle another dance.”
“I believe so,” Emma gave an exaggerated sigh and smiled, “but tomorrow I think I shall not be able to move at all.”
“A shame,” a familiar voice spoke. Mr. Jones approached, his arms folded politely behind his back.
“Emma, this is Mr. Killian Jones,” Leopold gestured to the man. Emma’s neck and cheeks felt hot as she realized it was finally him. He had waited hours for his introduction to her. “Mr. Jones, this is my niece, Miss Emma Swan.”
“Miss Swan,” Mr. Jones bent at the waist, bowing low before her. She curtseyed in response, as was appropriate. “If your feet can bear it, would you honor me with a dance?”
His hand held in mid-air, gloved in black, Emma fought against the butterflies in her stomach and slowly slid her own hand into his grasp. She was beyond the capacity for verbal response. He led her to the floor just before a slow, tender violin melody began.
Emma’s eyes were upon his as they took their first steps, one of her palms pressed ever-so-slightly to his. Emma turned, her gown held cautiously in her other hand.
“You thought I had gone,” he said in the softest of tones. They reversed directions and turned counter-clockwise, stepping in time with the music.
“That I did,” Emma confessed. She had never been one to lie about her feelings, and now was not the time to start doing so. There were only four couples upon the dance floor, a majority of attendees now having called it an evening. Dropping her dress, she slid her other hand up against his and turned once more in a circle.
“Your eyes are green,” he whispered this time, his gaze searching hers.
Emma smiled slightly at his clumsy observation and turned to face the South wall, rising onto her tip toes. Killian’s left hand pressed a bit more firmly against her right, his fingers curling around hers. “That they are,” she replied to him, her tone also as soft as could be heard over the music. She turned to the North wall, switching hands once more.
“How many dances have you had tonight, do you believe?” He muttered, raising and lowering his posture along with the dance. Her hand slipped from his grip as she crossed before him and turned again. She thought she felt his touch against the trailing ribbons of her gown as she moved. He mirrored her steps, only to face her as more of the quartet joined the violinist.
Emma watched his expression as she answered, searching his eyes for some kind of reaction. “I lost count two hours ago, but it was nearing twenty,” she gave a slight smirk, “hence my poor, sore feet.”
Although she expected him to smile back at her, he did not. She breathed slowly, attempting to reserve further commentary. He took both of her hands and moved close to her. So close that she could almost feel the heat from his body against her own. They stepped back again and turned in an uncomfortable silence.
Once they faced each other again, Emma slid her hands into his. This time, his voice was very different. It seemed emotional. “And how many proposals of marriage do you expect, come tomorrow?”
Emma stopped. The other couples continued the dance around them as she gazed into his eyes. Swallowing hard, she squeezed at his hands, which still cradled hers so gently.
“I expect nothing,” she said quietly. His head dipped slightly in a gesture of understanding. “However, what I expect and what I would desire, Mr. Jones...are two vastly different things.”
He was quiet as he stepped back into the dance once more, finishing the last few steps. Emma stopped and applauded the quartet, watching the remaining couples file from the room to say their goodbyes to her uncle.
Suddenly, Killian again stepped closer to her. The world seemed to disappear around them. He swallowed hard and reached up, daring to brush the back of his index finger against her cheek. As his hand dropped, he licked his lips and bent his head slightly toward her. “Would you tell me, Miss Swan, what it is that you desire?” The closeness of their bodies was nearing impropriety.
She folded her hands together, before her, heart pounding in her chest as his darkening eyes gazed down at her lips. Her eyelashes fluttered with excitement and a need for more of his touch.
“Use your perception, Mr. Jones,” she whispered softly, “and perhaps have a discussion with my uncle.”
Taking her hand into his, he lifted it carefully. With the string quartet packing their instruments and servants clearing the area of remaining punch glasses, he dared to remove her glove, one finger at a time. Emma’s chest swelled with anticipation. Bending his head, he whispered his reply, his gaze never leaving hers as he placed a kiss upon the back of her hand, “As you wish.”