But Quentin had stepped aside to make way for another. Braden claimed Cassidy’s hand and looped it through his elbow, pinning her fingers to his sleeve.
For just an instant his expression promised terrible retribution for her disobedience. But the man to whom he’d been speaking was only a step behind him, and Braden’s dispassionate mask slipped quickly back into place.
The stranger was dark-haired, mustachioed, and handsome, with sharp features and tanned skin. He looked from Cassidy to Braden, one eyebrow arched.
“May I be permitted an introduction?” he asked.
“Miss Holt,” Braden said with stiff formality, “may I present Don Alarico Julian Del Fiero, delegate from the premier loup-garou family of Spain. Don Alarico, this is my cousin from America, Miss Cassidy Holt.”
“Miss Holt,” Don Alarico said, bowing with a flourish. “I am enchanted.”
Cassidy curtsyed. “Buenos noches, senor. Qye te parece Inglaterra?”
He laughed with delight. “You speak my language! Como no voy a amar a Inglaterra estando usted aqui, senorita? Lord Greyburn, how is it that I did not know of your delightful cousin?”
“I grew up in New Mexico,” Cassidy said. “I—”
“Miss Holt arrived in England only a short while ago,” Braden said. He managed to pull Cassidy still closer to his side. “Her parents are dead, and she has become one of our family.”
“And an ornament she is, indeed,” the Spaniard said. “Nuevo Mexico must weep to have lost her.” He looked at Cassidy with open appreciation.
“Have you ever been to New Mexico?” she asked Don Alarico. “It’s beautiful here, but sometimes I miss the desert.”
The Spaniard nodded. “Yo comprendo. I have not yet been to your country, but in Spain—” He broke off and cocked his head. “Ah, the music. Perfect for dancing.”
The music had changed, from something soft and unobtrusive to a light waltz. Rowena, at the piano, had a fixed smile on her face. The seated man and woman were now on their feet, positioned for dancing.
“With your permission, Lord Greyburn?” Del Fiero said. “Senorita, may I have the honor of this dance?”
Cassidy flushed. “I’m sorry, senor. I never learned how.”
“Then perhaps I shall teach you,” he said. “I have no doubt that you shall be magnifica.” He held out his hand.
Braden maneuvered Cassidy so that she was behind him. “Forgive me, Don Alarico, but I claim this dance.”
The Spaniard stared at Braden, gave a brief bow, and backed away. “Of course, my lord. I shall be patient.”
Before Cassidy could react, Braden swept her into his arms. It wasn’t quite an embrace; he held her a little apart from himself, placing her left hand on his shoulder and putting his right arm around her waist. Then, in time to the music, he began to move—guiding her in the kind of graceful motions she’d only glimpsed through the windows other aunt’s drawing room.
She knew she was clumsy. The snug gown didn’t make learning any easier, and she hadn’t dismissed her anger at Braden. But the music created a kind of magic, and Braden was gazing down at her with an intensity that made his blindness seem unimportant. His fingers curled around her waist were very warm and strong, his clasp of her other hand possessive. Two other couples shared the center of the room, but Cassidy barely noticed.
Braden swept her about the floor, and she nearly forgot the tension, her resolve to seek answers, even the outrage that had brought her downstairs in the first place. The music, the dance took her to another world. It was like the woods, when she and Braden were in such perfect accord for a few precious moments. Braden’s face was near hers, its severity gentled by the melody; his lips were slightly parted, and she could have sworn that he, too, had almost forgotten they weren’t alone.
Didn’t he realize that this place out of time was where they both belonged? Didn’t it seem as right to him as it did to her? Was it possible that he didn’t feel these quivers of hot and cold, this reckless need to press every pan of her body against every part of his, with nothing in between?