“Will you miss it here?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

Italy has been wonderful. Italy never disappoints, but I’m eager to return to Boston.

“You’re too stunning to be standing out here on your own. It’s a waste. Come dance with me.”

“No.”

“Should I beg?”

I almost smile at the thought. “You wouldn’t know how.”

“True. It would be a first—but I get the sense you’d like that.”

I suddenly feel so exhausted by our games, by the pseudo friendship he seems insistent on perpetuating when we both know it’s not real. The two of us could never just be friends.

I shoot him a suspicious glare. “What is it that you want, Emmett?”

His brows knit together. “I’ve been trying to determine if I should apologize about the other night.”

“I’d rather we didn’t discuss it at all.”

“How can I resist when it gives you such a pretty flush, right here.”

The back of his knuckle grazes my cheek, and I don’t have the strength to pull away. Still, I manage a feeble “Don’t.”

“Fine. The apology wouldn’t have been sincere anyway. I’m not sorry for kissing you.”

“Ms. Davenport.”

I turn at the sound of my name and find Mr. Moretti standing at the doorway of the ballroom. Unlike the other attendants, he isn’t masked.

“I’m sorry for the interruption. Your grandmother sent me to fetch you. She’d like a word.”

“Of course,” I say, picking up my tulle skirt so I can hurry to join him.

I look back at Emmett only once before I make it to the door, and I find his easygoing expression has been wiped clean, replaced with terse annoyance. I don’t have time to delve into it. Whatever it is my grandmother needs, I don’t want to keep her waiting. A gnawing worry has already set in. I let Mr. Moretti lead me through the ballroom and then out into the hall. Through a heavy antique door, we enter a small, dark library.

My grandmother sits in her gown on a couch facing the doorway. Her hands are folded primly in her lap, and she nods in thanks to Mr. Moretti before he steps back and closes the door behind him.

“I—is everything okay?” I ask, taking in her appearance, hoping beyond hope that she isn’t about to tell me bad news about her health.

She looks ghostly white in this setting, the lamplight doing little to convince me she is fine and well. Her absence from the ballroom heralds bad news, I know it.

“I thought it best to tell you right away. Royce has called off the betrothal.”

Her statement absorbs into my bloodstream slowly, and all the while, I hold perfectly still, unsure of which emotion I should reveal, the agony of disappointment or the immensity of relief?

“And after your foolish behavior with Emmett this week, I’m hardly surprised.”

She spits out the word foolish so that it wounds me. Still, I work to give nothing away beyond my arms coming up to wrap protectively around me.