9
Lydia was dancing.
Dancing in nothing but her pale chemise that clung to her skin as she moved provocatively. She curtsied to an invisible partner and then began to sweep a pointed foot across the floor as she gently waved her arms in a slow, prancing sort of dance. She was exquisite. Her hair came down in flaxen waves that gleamed in the candlelight. What he wouldn’t give to be dancing with her right now.
A breath caught in his throat; Brodie was spellbound. She reminded him of the old stories of the fairy folk back in Scotland. Lydia could have passed for a princess. He leaned against the door, watching her with an ache in his chest that he had never felt before. It wasn’t lust. It was . . . something else, as if her very dance symbolized something he’d always wanted but could not p
