Olivia Atwater

“Pleasant-mannered people are simply the worst sort of people. Decent people become properly angry when presented with miserable injustice, but pleasant-mannered people never do.”

You are correct, of course,” Elias told her. “I despise these silly balls. I did not come here simply to dance.” He cleared his throat slightly. “I have again had little success today. I found myself sitting alone in the dark, tired and bitter. And I suppose I could have stayed like that. But I promised Albert that I would be kinder to myself. And so I tried to think of where I would want to be, if I were not so bound to this hopeless task.”

Dora knitted her brow. “You cannot have thought of Lady Cushing’s ball,” she said sceptically.

“I did not,” Elias said. “I thought of you, Dora. But you are here, and so here I am.” Those golden eyes held hers, and a flustered heat pooled against the surface of Dora’s skin. “I did not come here only to dance. I came here only to dance with you. It is quite a different thing.”

A few of those gathered in the ballroom began to turn their attention towards Dora at that. If she had been anyone other than herself, she might have been embarrassed at the sudden attention. But Elias was smiling at her with a whimsical pleasure, and she was swimming in stars—and as the musicians slowly found their beat again and he took her back into his arms to dance, Dora could only feel the brightest, most wonderful lantern warmth she had ever known before.