Chapter 18

Harry led Poppy toward the crowd of waltzing couples and settled his gloved hand at her waist. She reached for him, one palm light and trembling at his shoulder, her other hand gripped securely in his. In one astute glance, Harry took in the entire scene: Poppy's unshed tears, Michael Bayning's set face, and the slew of curious gazes encompassing them.

"How can I help?" he asked gently.

"Take me away," she said. "As far as possible from here. Timbuktu."

Harry looked sympathetic and amused. "I don't think they're letting in Europeans these days." He drew Poppy into the current of dancers, swift counterclockwise turns in a clockwise pattern, and the only way to keep from stumbling was to follow him without hesitation.

Poppy was profoundly grateful to have something to focus on besides Michael. As she might have expected, Harry Rutledge was an excellent dancer. Poppy relaxed into his smooth, strong lead. "Thank you," she said. "You're probably wondering why I—"