The moment our waltz ended, Alexander’s hand tightened on my waist in a way that suggested our conversation was far from over. Instead of escorting me back to the crowd, he guided me toward the edge of the ballroom with purposeful determination.
“Where are we going?” I asked, though his direction toward the French doors made it obvious.
“Somewhere we can speak privately without an audience of hundreds.”
“Alexander, I don’t think—”
“We’re going to talk, Isabella. Now.”
His tone brooked no argument, and before I could protest further, he was leading me through the doors onto the private balcony that overlooked the academy’s formal gardens. The October night was crisp and clear, with stars scattered across the sky like diamonds against black velvet.
The balcony was furnished with elegan
