Sebastian’s lips twitch, but he only sighs. “I know what marriage must seem like to a girl like you.”

“A girl like me?”

“Spirited.”

I huff, swishing my skirts in time with the music. “That’s what men call women they can’t control.”

Sebastian captures my waist, his blue eyes piercing. “And who says I want to control you?”

My breath stutters. “That’s what marriage is. A woman swearing obedience to a man, is it not?”

Sebastian guides me into the next step of this cursedly long saraband. “It doesn’t have to be. Quite frankly, I have no interest in curbing your spirit. I rather think it could serve us both well.”

“What do you mean?”

A smile ticks at his lips. “Imagine us, ruling Potosí from the top of the hill. Our two families joined, their power pooled. We could make a fine team, if you only give me a chance.”

My stomach feels like lead. It would be easier to hate him. “Why are you saying this?”

“I didn’t ask for this marriage either,” Sebastian says. “But it’s happening. We might as well make the best of it.”

The song comes to its crescendo as the lines of men and women twirl to a stop, facing one another. The men bow at the waist while the women dip into curtsies, their heads inclined coquettishly.

The musicians take a breath, readying for the next piece. The silence is my chance.

I turn my back on Sebastian, ducking into the crowd before he can stop me. I don’t think he’ll try. To chase after me would look foolish, and whatever his flaws, he is not a fool. Already, whispers rise up about my behavior, but I can’t bring myself to care about how bad my fleeing the dance floor looks.

I don’t want to have that conversation with him. I need a moment to myself, away from him. Away from his hands and his eyes and the words that don’t sound nearly as unreasonable as I want them to.

CHAPTER 10

Ana

I hate balls.

I hate the frilly dresses.

I hate the fake smiles and the barbed words.

But most of all, I hate the people who go to them.

Specifically, Sebastian. If I had a sword, I would run it through the soft skin of his belly as if I were disemboweling wild game. I bet he’d barely put up a fight. Murdering him would hardly be sporting. Satisfying, probably, but hardly sporting. He wouldn’t be much of a challenge on his own. Not now when I am sober. I imagine cornering him in a dark alley when it’s just the two of us. No friends to deliver his punches for him. Just him and me and a nice, sharp blade. He wouldn’t be so pretty after that.