"My Lord, unless you intend to leave the Duke with no toes left to stand at the party, I suggest you find your rhythm."
Cherion jolted, his left foot hovering awkwardly over where his partner's, or, well, the air's, feet should be. Heat rushed up his neck. "My apologies, Madame. I... I got caught in my own head."
Varo sighed, the kind of sigh that came from forty years of trying to turn stiff Northern men into elegant swans. She adjusted her glasses, eyes sharp as ever as she scanned his posture.
From the shadowy corner near the heavy velvet drapes, a steady voice cut in. "Maybe the young master's just tired."
"A break, then," Varo said, tapping her fan against her palm. "Fifteen minutes. Not a second more, or we shall lose the momentum entirely."
Cherion didn't wait to be told twice. He practically collapsed into a chair near the window, the cold glass behind him a blessing against the sweat sticking to his shirt. Reiner gave him a brief, knowing nod. "I'll get some tea."
