Maid to Match by Deeanne Gist

laughter and sharp cries of surprise rose with each measure of music. He relaxed his grip and took her hand again, but kept her far closer than was proper. Her leg brushed his through the thickness of her skirts. As quickly as it occurred, they were on to the next step, only to have it happen again. And again.
    Finally, the song ended.
    He released her immediately. She ripped off her blindfold, making havoc of her pompadour.
    He pulled his scarf down, leaving it around his neck.
    They stood in a sea of mirth and joviality. Neither smiled. Neither looked away.
    His eyes darkened. His chest rose and fell. He took a step forward.
    Spinning around, she wove through the crowd, out the door, and to the wagon. She wanted to go home.

CHAPTER
Nine
    He waited for her, as he always did, in the doorway of the terrace. Only this time, instead of facing his mountains, he faced the tapestry gallery. In the dark. In the silence.
    After a few minutes the feminine tap of her heels against parquet floors echoed throughout the first floor and kept time with his thumping heart.
    He’d not been looking for a woman. Hadn’t been entertaining thoughts of settling down. Hadn’t even been tempted to dance last night. Until he saw Tillie in the arms of another man.
    The urge to flatten her partners – from dairyman to groom to footman – had taken him by surprise. So he’d forced himself to stay in the corner of the barn and watch. From what he could tell, she didn’t favor any one over the other, though plenty had tried to monopolize her attention.
    When Mack had seen Aaron James head Tillie’s direction for the fourth time, he could stand it no more. He’d stepped in the footman’s path, cutting him off, and then presented himself to Tillie.
    For a moment, he thought she’d refuse him. And that one action told him more than any word she could have spoken, for she’d not had any hesitation in partnering anyone else. Which meant she felt the pull between them.
    The heaviness of the limbs. The tightening of the chest. The squeezing of the throat.
    Every morning since that first one, the two of them would stand side by side listening to the silence before beginning their chores. And with each passing day, the less they listened and the more they whispered in the dark.
    She told him about sledding down snowy hills as a child in a shovel. About trimming paper dolls with lace from her mother’s old petticoats. About her father lining his pocket with sweets and painting pictures on their walls with berry juice.
    He told her about running wild on his mountain in nothing but shirttails. About downing his first bear. About hiking thirteen miles to the mill carrying a two-bushel sack of corn. And the way frozen trees crack like rifle shots when their limbs get heavy.
    When they could no longer put off their duties, he’d move the furniture, she’d follow behind with broom and mop. She’d open the shades, he’d follow behind with window cloths. Eventually footmen would intrude, making a ruckus in the breakfast room. Under-parlormaids would trickle in to help Tillie finish what she’d started.
    The mood would be broken. But not the constant awareness he had of exactly where she was. What she was doing. Whom she was speaking to.
    The tapping of her heels stopped. He heard her set her cleaning box on the floor by the light controls. Then, nothing.
    She didn’t join him. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
    He couldn’t see her. Even though his eyes had adjusted to the dark, it was impenetrable. Flaring his nostrils, he took in a deep breath. But instead of smelling her unique scent, he smelt linseed oil and turpentine.
    “Come here,” he whispered.
    Not a sound.
    He headed toward her, his footsteps loud and sure.
    Light flooded the room.
    He pulled up short, shielding his eyes for a moment, before slowly lowering his arm. “What did you do that for?”
    She wore the lavender calico. His favorite. The fancy puff she’d made with her hair last