His Forbidden Debutante. Anabelle Bryant

the unlikely change in circumstance and he shook his head to excuse the sharp reply, but with the wedding looming in the near future, every lesson seemed imperative.

      He should never have reread that old letter. Somehow, the amusing words had conjured all kinds of inconvenient feelings and awakened the restlessness and disappointment he worked hard to keep buried; his uncooperative outburst the result.

      ‘Please understand, milord. Monsieur Bournon feels terribly about this inconvenience and had he not been summoned by the Prince Regent would never have left you with short notice of this change in plans. Nevertheless, the lady is an accomplished student who is here to polish her skills more than interpret the steps. She will be the perfect match for your ability. I have every confidence.’ Moira appeared worried by the conversation, his mouth held in a firm line, his brow furrowed, though he continued with assertive insistence. ‘You must at least begin the lesson. Then, if you are displeased, you may leave and I will notify Monsieur Bournon that I have failed in mollifying your request and managing his intentions, but do bear in mind that, when summoned by the Crown, one does not hesitate.’

      A shadow of guilt for his initial overreaction diffused Penwick’s distemper. He was to be married and it would not suit to be waltzing with a lady of society for an hour of dance instruction, but there truly was nothing to be done about it. ‘Very well. I’m here now. Let us join the lady in the hall, but please remember not to address me by name. It’s important no one knows of my attendance here.’ He recovered all aplomb and waited for the instructor’s consent.

      ‘Excellent. You have my word.’ Moira’s anxiety transformed to jovial countenance in a blink, and with a twist of the brass door handle they entered, their boot heels echoing in the otherwise silent room.

      Across the floor, a tall, slender woman stood with her back turned. Perhaps she’d been lost in thought or restlessly passing the time while she waited, for their entrance startled her and her head whipped around so quickly her round, wire-framed spectacles slid down her nose with the motion.

      Suddenly it was hard to breathe.

      Somewhere in his chest, under his left arm just shy of his heart, the exact location where he’d been sliced by an epee while learning to fence, a tremendous ache swelled, forcing his lungs to constrict and his breathing to halt. He dragged in air with great effort.

      He watched as the lady turned to face them, righting her glasses with a fingertip before taking a stride, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders to fall in ribbons down her back. They matched eyes and the entire world stopped.

      He knew not how long they stared, unaware, caught in the moment, until the instructor cleared his throat and Penwick forced his mind to focus.

      How unusual to have thought about spectacles during the carriage ride. How fantastically strange and confusing.

      ‘Milady, your partner for today’s lesson has arrived,’ Moira informed the young miss. ‘May I introduce Lord W?’

      Penwick didn’t possess enough clarity to question the initial.

      ‘Waltz, milord.’ Mr Moira smiled, apparently pleased to share the discreet explanation.

      ‘Oh?’ Her one word whispered past him, but the lady didn’t say more.

      All at once, his eyes didn’t know where to settle, taking in her fashionable gown, a deep shade of crimson which complemented her porcelain skin and mahogany hair, then to the white gloves buttoned at each wrist. Her features were delicate, high cheekbones and soft, full lips, and her shy smile, when she finally became comfortable with the new circumstance, lit the room more than the plentitude of high-strung chandeliers spaced across the ceiling amidst the departing rays of the sun.

      He approached, his prior tension a fading memory.

      Livie watched as the gentleman strode across the dance floor, her heart pounding a ferocious beat. Without cause, her palms grew damp beneath her gloves, and she was grateful to have remembered them, as she’d have been mortified to present sweaty hands to this handsome stranger. He stood a head taller than any man she’d danced with before, though that number remained few. Monsieur Bournon practised with her ordinarily and he was of smaller stature. Her eyes rose and she found his expression one of dubious curiosity.

      What an unexpected twist to an otherwise troubling day. Who was this stranger? And how did he come to need dance instruction when his appearance presented as polished as any gentleman with whom she’d ever made acquaintance? Here stood a man who hadn’t gone soft like so many aristocrats, his physique broad and fit. His clothes were pristine and pressed, his dark brown hair combed precisely to fashion and, unless she was mistaken, she detected the warm, spicy scent of bergamot in his cologne. How she loved candied orange peel. The thought eased the moment.

      ‘May I?’

      His deep voice resonated, slid through her senses with a lasting beat as if he opened the door to her heart and whispered to her soul. Not the hollow echo that accompanied every sound in the vast ballroom. Instead, the two words vibrated within her and the reaction proved fascinating and unsettling. His striking appearance had already set her heart to beat triple-time; she needed no other observation to abrade her nerves. Aware she stood a motionless ninny, she forced a smile and they moved equidistant to close the space between them.

      ‘Of course.’ She replied and he reached for her, one hand settling in her gloved palm while the other gently clasped her waist. They touched and her gaze shot to his in kind with an expression of equal surprise.

      A woman could get lost in such large brown eyes, the colour of his irises a mixture of coffee and honey, framed by lush dark lashes, long and curled at the very tips. She swallowed, hoping he couldn’t hear the sound.

      And still they stood motionless.

      She’d danced with partners who’d held her in identical frame, but somehow this moment was different. Defining. His touch warmed her from the inside out, filled her with an unidentifiable sensation that assured and at the same time pitched her pulse to high riot. She must control her nerves and accomplish her very best dancing. For some reason, it seemed all the more important today.

      From the corner of her eye she noticed Mr Moira retreating to the far wall where he raised a violin. The first stroke of the bow startled yet again and she jumped, Lord W’s hand tightening on her waist as if he wished to hold her safe and prevent her from falling. They hadn’t taken one step, but it pleased all the same, the protective measure he showed without the slightest provocation.

      With a subtle nudge he swayed into the music, leading with the firm insistence of his hand at her waist, the measured exhale of his breath against her temple. They danced in silence, the graceful, disconsolate melody fraught with unexpected sentiment. It filled her with gentle longing and loss, as if myriad tender emotions, fragile and evanescent, milled within, unable to find their correct tempo and position.

      Lord W appeared equally affected though she hadn’t shifted her eyes, content studying the elaborate folds in his cravat, the rugged shape of his jaw, how his Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed unspoken words. His mouth possessed a deep cleft at the peak of his upper lip like the crease of a heart. How would it feel against her mouth? Her pulse tripped at the wayward thought, and she knew without looking he possessed a tentative unrest, just as she did. They’d scheduled the lesson to learn the proper footwork, yet their steps were completed without hesitation, their bodies consumed with some unexplainable force far more important than timing or inclination to the turn. They danced a grand circle around the ballroom, her heart counting the rhythm more than her mind, the sensation bewildering, but pleasant, a lick of fiery desire anxious to become a conflagrant fire.

      What was this? What strange passion affected him? Unsettled him? He’d danced with numerous partners through every lesson, never the same woman twice, all experience at social functions mirroring a similar routine, yet now, in this moment, he’d never felt more scattered and collected, the opposing qualities at war with his composure. He focused on the far wall, each step in time, every pace completed perfectly, yet blood pounded in his veins, the disconnect of sensibility and emotion too loud