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“Are you going to ask her for a dance or not?” Clea spoke into his ear.
Verso choked on his swallow of wine. “What—who—” he sputtered, then pounded his chest with his fist until he was done coughing and had recovered his composure by the same token. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked innocently.
Clea did not fall for it, of course. “You’ve been mooning over her since we got here,” she retorted with one of her scathing eye rolls. “It’s really quite pathetic.”
Verso ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. As a rule, he never asked anyone for a dance. He never lacked for partners regardless, but he was all too aware of the eyes on him, and the last thing he wanted was feed Lumière’s ravenous gossip machine. The harbour was crowded enough he didn’t think anyone would notice on what—or whom—his gaze lingered, but of course nothing escaped Clea’s sharp eye.
The young woman was dancing alone, seemingly without a care in the world. Her hair whirled around her in a billow of dark gold as she moved—not gracefully, nothing like the studied elegance of his mother’s dance, but with an abandon that put him in mind of the wild horses Alicia loved to draw. Every once in a while she twirled on someone’s arm, but then inevitably returned to her lone, secret dance, like the music guiding her steps had nothing to do with the cello and accordion of the festival band.
A flash of emerald eyes caught his through the dancing crowd. The blonde woman looked at him, her hair tousled, colour riding high on her cheeks, then spun away.
Verso sighed into his glass. “She looks happy dancing on her own, though, doesn’t she?” he said quietly.
Clea shrugged, then nudged him with one elbow. “Doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like dancing with you,” she said, in a rare show of sisterly support. “Now go ask her or I will.”
He chuckled; that was more like the Clea he knew. “Fine,” he relented. He drained his wine, then made his way to the alluring dancer before the courage left him.
“Hi,” he said, very eloquently. “I’m Verso.”
She turned and raised her green eyes at him. This close, he could see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat and the smattering of freckles on her rosy skin. She wasn’t one of those classical beauties modelling for his family’s paintings, but he couldn’t get enough of her face’s asymmetrical quirks, the vivacious spark of her gaze, the teasing slant of her smile.
The corner of her lips gave an amused twitch. “I know,” she said.
Verso blinked at the unexpected retort. He’d been afraid of spooking her like some wild thing in the woods, but now he realized he was the one who’d ventured on her turf, wholly unprepared. “Oh. Um. Care for a dance?”
“With you?” she blurted.
He glanced over to Clea for moral support, but she simply dropped her face into her palm. “Well … that was the idea, yes.”
Everyone was watching them now, likely wondering who was this mysterious girl who’d caught the attention of the Dessendre son. He was about to excuse himself and crawl back to his sister when the woman nodded once.
“Okay,” she agreed, like she couldn’t think of a good reason to turn him down. “I’m Julie.”
Verso bowed at the waist and reached for her hand; he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and was gratified by the flush deepening on her cheeks and the surprise widening her eyes. Whispers rose around them, but to hell with it, he decided. Let them talk.
“Enchanté, Julie.”
