Free Titanic Affair by Amanda P Grange Page A

anyone. Do it to please me, dear.’
    Thus entreated, Emilia felt it would be rude to refuse again, and reluctantly she stood up.
    ‘Is it really so bad, having to dance with me?’ he murmured, as he led her out on to the floor, guiding her past waiters and other dancers.
    She flushed.
    ‘No, not at all.’
    ‘And yet you were going to refuse me,’ he said, as he took her hand in his own. ‘Why?’
    She could not tell him the real reason, that the thought of dancing with him filled her with a confusing mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
    ‘I - I’ve eaten too much!’ she laughed.
    To her relief, he laughed, too. But then he said, ‘I don’t believe you.’
    The change in him was so sudden that she felt her heart skip a beat.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
    He looked down into her eyes.
    ‘I said, I don’t believe you.’
    His gaze was intense, and it made her breathless.
    ‘You’re not supposed to say that,’ she remarked, flustered.
    ‘I know. But I rarely do what I’m supposed to do. So why don’t you tell me what you were thinking?’ he said, as he slipped his arm round her waist.
    She could feel the heat of his hand as it came to rest in the small of her back, and as he pulled her closer she began to tingle from head to foot.
    He had asked her a question, but his nearness had driven it from her mind. She was conscious of nothing but the heat of his body so close to her own, and the soft whisper of his breath against her cheek. It felt like a warm wind, making her instinctively lift her face to his.
    He smiled down into her eyes, but there was something predatory in the smile. And yet she did not feel threatened by it. Rather, she felt exhilarated.
    ‘Well?’ he asked.
    His voice was deep and throaty. It sent tingles up and down her spine.
    ‘I - have forgotten the question,’ she said.
    His smile broadened, and the pressure of his hand became more intense. ‘Have you? But I’ve only just asked it.’
    ‘There are so many distractions. The music, the people, the . . . .’ feel of your arm round me , she thought, but could not say it.
    She did not need to. By the look in his eyes, it seemed as though he could read her mind.
    ‘I asked you what you were thinking,’ he said, as he began to whirl her round the floor.
    He was a good dancer, light on his feet and yet firm in his touch. He guided her effortlessly between the other couples on the floor.
    Lulled by the familiar rhythm and steps of the waltz Emilia at last felt able to reply.
    All she said, however, was, ‘I really can’t remember.’
    ‘Yes, you can.’
    She swallowed. Then looked up into his eyes.
    ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I was wondering what experiences you must have had in your early life to make you the man you are today.’
    He raised his eyebrows.
    ‘And what exactly is "the man I am today"?’
    She bit her lip, but then said resolutely, ‘A man who is the equal of anyone here, though he wasn’t born to wealth or position.’
    ‘Ah. You noticed,’ he said teasingly.
    She smiled. ‘Yes. I did.’
    He laughed. ‘You’re right. My beginnings were very different to this.’
    He glanced round the opulent dining-room, with its flower-laden tables, its sparkling glasses, its gleaming silver, its glittering lights and its immaculate guests. Then his expression changed, and just for a moment she caught sight of something that lurked beneath the surface, a boy driven by need and want, clawing his way out of difficulties to be in a position where he could sail on the finest ship in the world, on terms of equality with some of its wealthiest and most well-connected people.
    ‘Yes?’ she prompted him.
    He gave a wry smile.
    ‘It isn’t fit for a lady’s ears.’
    ‘I’m not a lady,’ she returned.
    ‘I beg to differ,’ he said, suddenly serious. Just for a moment he stopped whirling her round the floor. In the midst of the other dancers they were still. ‘I’ve met females of every type and rank, and