The Tale Of The Dancing Girl. Grace D'Otare

would provide no comfort at all.

      She stepped back from the curtain. Brass bells dangled from the anklets Delilah wore, announcing her every step. The bracelets above her elbows prodded tender skin, encouraging her to hold her arms open and away from her body, instead of primly tucked at her sides. Above the gauzy fluff of her skirting, a heavy belt embroidered with shells encircled her hips. Her breasts were bound into a short chemise of raw silk, leaving her abdomen covered by a sheer scarf. She wore no stockings at all. And that wasn’t the least of it.

      No bloomers.

      It was fascinating how easily one could become accustomed to shocking things.

      She closed her eyes. Nima’s arms slipped around her waist. Delilah relaxed against her friend’s shoulder and let their gentle embrace become the sway of the dance.

      “Yes,” Nima encouraged her, always something of a mind reader. “Tonight you are not Mrs. Delilah Smith-Jones. You are Khanum. You are music. You are the promise of…time?”

      “Forever,” Delilah supplied.

      “The forever dance between woman and man, earth and water. Come, sister. Dance with us.” Nima pulled the veil across Delilah’s face and pinned it to the crown that held back her long dark hair.

      “I must stay at the back.”

      “The dance will show you where to go. Do not fear. The dance will not betray you.” She twirled around, holding Delilah’s hand, led her gracefully through the doorway into the courtyard full of music, dancers and dangerous men.

      Immediately warm air enveloped them. Delilah felt as if she’d stepped into a bath. Torches burned at the edge of the open floor. Smaller braziers kept pipes and samovars bubbling. Musicians, guards and Khan’s many advisers filled the space with the heat of men’s bodies. They leaned with backs against the walls, crouched on haunches and sat lazily around the edges of the terrace. Delilah felt as though she’d entered the lion’s den.

      Eyes. Everywhere she turned there were men watching, watching as the women began to open, like flowers, spinning their skirts wide and flinging their arms out.

      Colonel Weston was pouring himself a glass of tea.

      Delilah tried not to look at him. The last thing she wanted was to catch his eye.

      No worry there.

      Weston lolled in his chair, fiddling with the spout on the samovar, glancing around the table—oh, he wanted a spoon. There, he found it. Delilah counted three spoonfuls of sugar, and a long, slow stir before, finally, he shifted his attention back to the dancers with a—Good lord, Delilah could only call it a blasé expression on his sunburned face.

      The man was bored in a room full of exotic dancers?

      The drums began to pulse. Nima let out the first cry, and her sisters answered.

      The dancer’s cry was a powerful sound. It had frightened Delilah the first time she heard it. The women seemed to open their throats to the bottom of their spines. Their tongues fluttered and the result was part song, part roar, part call to arms.

      Delilah answered.

      How could Colonel Weston resist these women? She could not.

      Her body forgot the men, forgot the newness of the clothes she wore, forgot everything but the music, and the need to join with her sisters, flowing into motions as effortless as breathing.

      Dancing, Delilah finally felt her body take up every inch of space it deserved. Her arms opened and rose above her head. Feet planted wide, she arched her spine, pressing her breasts forward and her bottom back. She was the shame of every simple, dropped-waist, fashionable sack dress she’d ever worn. She rippled with curves in every direction. It felt delicious. It felt extravagant. It felt exactly right.

      Which is precisely the moment she realized Colonel Weston was watching.

      Watching her.

      She nearly stumbled.

      His eyes were black in the flickering light of the torches. An eerie stillness cloaked his body, as if his relaxed position had become a kind of camouflage.

      Delilah concentrated on the music, letting her eyelids drift shut. She moved around the room, dancing between her sisters, around a torch, wherever the music carried her.

      It didn’t matter how far she traveled. Whenever she risked a peek in his direction, Weston was watching.

      Why was he suddenly so intent? She was veiled. He had no reason to think…nice widowed ladies didn’t…she was practically a governess to these women. She ran the Ladies Auxiliary, for heaven’s sake.

      No. He couldn’t have recognized her.

      The Khan offered his guest the hookah’s snake again. This time the colonel did not decline. His mouth made a kiss around the silver tip and he exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon breathing fire.

      “Come, Delilah,” Nima pulled her away from the back wall. “You must get close enough he can see your pretty eyes.”

      “Who? No, wait…”

      “Do as I do.”

      In an instant they were dancing at the edge of the terrace at the feet of the Khan and his honored guest.

      Nima rocked her hips lower and lower to the ground, until she was on her knees in front of the Khan. She flung her hair forward, dropping her head and baring the nape of her neck before the king.

      Oh no.

      Nima’s hips continued to swirl little circles over her heels as she flashed a dagger look backward over her shoulder. Do it!

      Delilah gritted her teeth and looked Colonel Weston right in the eye.

      His eyebrow was raised, ever so slightly. His lips curved in the tiniest hint of a smile.

      Oh, yes. He knew exactly who was dancing in front of him.

      Her mouth went dry. She felt as if she’d swallowed a cold stone.

      Slowly he began to rub the skin above his lip with his finger, back and forth, back and forth.

      Delilah began to rock her hips. The moment she gave herself to the motion and the beat of the drums, it became easier. Lower and lower, she eased her way to the ground. She paused, spread her feet wider and continued to rock.

      The colonel shifted in his seat, widening the spread of his knees.

      Delilah went down on her knees. She arched her spine, presenting her curves, and let her hands draw the story of her body.

      A little drop of sweat sparkled in the torchlight as it rolled past the colonel’s ear, to the sharp edge of his jaw.

      Her fingers began by tracing the length of her throat, then skimming circles around the edges of her breasts. Her lips parted, her eyes drifted shut. Her thumbs caught on the tips bound in silk and her chin lifted as she gasped. It felt lovely. She felt lovely.

      Slowly her hands trailed down to map the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips and finally, skimming across the tops of her legs, her fingers fanned out, covering the pulsing heat between her thighs.

      For a moment she let him join her, opening her eyes just enough to connect to his gaze. Watching him watch her, she rocked her pelvis against the heel of her hand. It was absolutely indecent how wonderful it felt.

      The colonel looked as if he were readying to pounce.

      She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She broke the contact between them by flinging her unbound hair forward. It slapped against his pants and pooled around his boots on the floor. With her forehead pressed to the cool tile, she rested a moment, trying to catch her breath. It was a position of obeisance, but she had never felt more powerful.

      The colonel leaned forward in his seat and reached out for her.