“I was right, wasn’t I?” she asked huskily, unable to look at him. “It was a mistake for us to dance.” Westcliff waited so long to reply that she thought he might not. “Yes,” he finally said, the single syllable roughened with some unidentifiable emotion. Because he could not afford to want her. Because he knew as well as she that a pairing between them would be a disaster. Suddenly it hurt to be near him. “Then I suppose this waltz will be our first and our last,” she said lightly. “Good evening, my lord, and thank you for—” “Lillian,” she heard him whisper. Turning from him, she walked away
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OH THE ANGST BITCH
