Ford's heart leapt to his throat. "No," he said at once, and reached out to catch the wrist of her free hand before he could think better of it. "Don't go." As soon as his mind had caught up to him and realized what he was doing he felt embarrassed at having grabbed her wrist, and his cheeks flushed though he did not let go. They were near the edge of the ballroom now, with the door to the garden in sight — why couldn't they have made it just a few steps further before she'd proposed leaving? He felt that if they were out there he could say something that would compel her to stay — though he did not know what he would have said — that he couldn't say here, when they were still (relatively speaking) in the public eye.

"I don't care if you're mad," he said, meanwhile thinking you're making a fool of yourself and also remember you aren't in love with her, really; it only feels that way. Things were off, and he was off, and he knew it, but none of that could take priority in his thoughts when he was forced to consider the absence of her. "I'll go mad with you," he offered boldly. "At least we'll know we've got good company."

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