Alex gazed down at her with what he knew must be a stupid, besotted smile. Her laughter did odd things to him. It seemed to unmake him, and then put him back together in a strange, new way. “What about you? Did you enjoy bathing in the sea?”

“It wasn’t at all what I was expecting.” Her full skirts swung against his legs as he waltzed her around the crowded floor. “Did you know there’s a large woman at the exit to the bathing machines who grabs hold of you, thrusts you straight down under the water, and pulls you back up again? They call her ‘the Dipper.’”

“Good God.”

“She dipped Henrietta, and then she dipped me. Apparently, it’s all part of the fun of sea bathing, but I confess I could find no enjoyment in it.”

“I should think not. It sounds appalling.”

“And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Once she dipped us, we were stuck under a canvas awning. Six of us ladies, with no view of the sky, and scarcely any room between us, paddling in place in our woolen bathing costumes like a pack of wet dogs.”

“I can’t imagine you ever looking like a wet dog.”

She laughed again. “Is that meant to be a compliment? If so, I shudder to think what sorts of praises you’ve been heaping on Henrietta’s head.”

His chest constricted. “Laura…”

She looked up at him, smiling.

And he wanted to tell her that she was extraordinary. That she was beautiful and brave. That it made his heart ache to look at her.

But he couldn’t say any of those things. He didn’t dare. Not when it couldn’t lead anywhere.

His voice went gruff. “I’m not known for my fulsome compliments.”

“Pity. Henrietta likes a pretty compliment now and then.”

“And you don’t?”

She lifted one bare shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve no experience with them. Not from anyone I care about. Those are the only compliments that matter.”

The music swelled, the chords gathering to a close.

His hand tightened at her waist. “Then what I say wouldn’t mean anything anyway. Not to you.”

Her smile dimmed. “I expect not.”

“Because you don’t care for me.”

“How can I care for you? You are not mine.”

It was the last thing she said to him. Seconds later, when the music ended, he let her go. She went back to her aunt and her brother—and to George and Henrietta, who had just finished dancing themselves. But Alex didn’t follow. As the orchestra struck up a polka, he shouldered his way through the crowd and out the front doors through the colonnade.

Once on the street, he inhaled a ragged breath of cold night air. It was sea air, salty and damp. It burned in his lungs, and in his memory.