Regency Society Collection Part 2. Ann Lethbridge

undertake the task himself.

      She felt hot all over. He wouldn’t, would he? ‘You promised me a lesson.’

      ‘In waltzing.’

      She eyed him warily. ‘Yes.’

      His jaw flexed and his mouth flattened. ‘Then let us begin. First, have you ever seen a waltz performed or tried it yourself?’

      She shook her head.

      He huffed out a sigh. ‘Then we will begin with the basics. A waltz is a gliding dance in three-four time. When danced well, it is a sensual experience for dancers and watchers alike. Performed badly, and it is simply two people galloping around in circles.’

      He ran his eyes from her heels to her head. No doubt expecting her waltz to be of the galloping variety.

      ‘Where did you learn?’ she asked.

      Her question seemed to catch him off guard. He blinked a couple of times as if trying to come up with a story. He gave a small dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘In my misspent youth.’ His smile was bitter.

      The waltz was considered scandalous by many. He must have had a misspent youth. A flitter of excitement skated through her abdomen. ‘Show me.’ Her body trembled, awaiting his touch.

      He narrowed his eyes. ‘First, let me see you move. Go and sit down in the chair by the hearth.’

      Puzzled, she strode across the room and dropped on to the seat.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘Forget you are dressed like that. Pretend you are wearing the most elegant of gowns. Do it again. This time don’t swagger, glide.’

      She went back to the centre of the room and walked slowly to the chair and lowered herself into it.

      ‘Better,’ he said. ‘You are the most beautiful woman in the room. You do not dance with just anyone. Your partners have to be worthy.’

      She batted her eyelashes at him and smiled. She didn’t feel particularly beautiful, only rather silly.

      He shook his head. ‘No. Ignore me. Feel it inside yourself. Feel light. Ethereal. Beautiful. Calm. Be completely unconscious of anyone except the person seated beside you.’

      ‘There isn’t anyone.’

      He glared at her. ‘Pretend you are talking to someone.’

      When she shook her head, he growled something under his breath. Seconds later he had picked up a broom and stood it next to her chair. ‘You are an artist. Use your imagination. This is Lady Stuck-up. You are not visibly aware of anything but her gossip. Yet you know the world is looking at only you.’

      She closed her eyes for a moment, imagined a ballroom full of glitter and members of the nobility. She straightened her spine, opened her eyes, but let the images remain. Her companion, a luscious blonde in a diamond tiara and sky-blue gown, spoke in soft tones. Music played in the background. Eyes followed each nod of her head. Aware of Robert’s approach, she pretended not to see him, but smiled at something Lady Stuck-up said.

      ‘Miss Bracewell,’ Robert said, ‘may I ask you to honour me with the next waltz?’

      She slowly turned her head to look up at him. A small, devastating smile curved his lips. He held out a hand.

      She hesitated for a moment. Would she, the most beautiful woman in the room, dance with this man? Perhaps she would do him the honour, this once. With a slight incline of her head, she rested her hand on his palm.

      He stared at her for a moment, as if lost. He was certainly a good actor, playing to her role of coquette.

      He raised her to her feet, placed her hand on his sleeve and drew her into the centre of the room, his guiding hand almost imperceptible as he steered her to her place, yet full of energy and demand.

      How did he do that? She tried to look unconscious of his powerful presence.

      He swirled her around, then placed one of her hands beside his lapel, and kept the other firmly grasped. She felt pressure from his other hand between her shoulders. ‘The orchestra plays the opening bars,’ he murmured. ‘Listen to the rhythm. One, two, three. One, two, three. Feel it inside your body.’

      He hummed a tune in a light tenor and a shiver raked her shoulders.

      ‘Step back, step side, step around,’ he said as he moved in a circle.

      Stiff and awkward, she tried to follow his movements. She stumbled. His strong arm held her up.

      ‘S-sorry,’ she said.

      ‘You are fine. Follow my lead. Relax.’

      ‘If I could just see what you are doing with your feet…’

      An eyebrow went up and he gave her a rueful smile. ‘And I used to envy the dancing masters their job.’ He released her and she stepped back. After a second’s pause, he crossed the room and bowed to the broomstick. ‘Dear Lady Stuck-up, would you be so good as to demonstrate to Miss Bracewell?’

      Frederica giggled.

      He shot her a warning glance. ‘Remember, you are a haughty diamond of the first water, not a schoolroom miss.’

      Frederica lifted her chin and stared down her nose at him. His look of approval gave her confidence. She maintained her indifferent expression as he picked up the broom and twirled around the room. At first, she wanted to laugh, but as she watched his lithe body and manly grace, her blood quickened and her insides fluttered in a rush of pleasurable thrills.

      Silly girl. He isn’t interested. He’d made it quite plain. She wiped her palms on her breeches. Watch his feet. Learn.

      Gradually the pattern became clear, and she tapped her foot in time to his soft hum.

      He stopped and cast poor Lady Stuck-up to the corner. He grinned at her. ‘Do you see?’

      ‘I think so.’ Oh, she hoped so, or he’d think her such a dolt.

      ‘Very well, we will try again.’ Once more he encircled her in his arms. A tremble shook her frame.

      ‘Don’t be nervous. Remember, you are a willow, you are elegant, you glide, you do not hop like a frog.’

      She chuckled at the image.

      He frowned and she resumed her haughty pose.

      ‘Above all, you are bold and confident,’ he instructed.

      As bold as her mama. The thought bolstered her courage. She took a deep breath.

      ‘First the opening.’ He hummed a few bars, then with the gentlest touch, he led her into the dance.

      This time, she felt his directions, subtle tugs and pushes of hand and arm and body guided her steps. She floated as if immersed in the River Wynch’s swirling eddies.

      ‘Very nice,’ he said.

      She stumbled.

      He laughed. A wonderful, warm sound. It touched her heart with the sweetest echo of pain.

      ‘Next lesson,’ he said. ‘How to converse with your partner. Keep the music in your mind, let your feet listen to it.’

      Now her feet had ears?

      ‘You dance divinely, Miss Bracewell.’

      ‘As do you, Mr Deveril.’

      ‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head at her with a smile. ‘A mere gracious thank you will do. And if you make a misstep, never apologise. After all, the man is in charge of the dance. If you falter, his is the error.’

      And so it went, over and over, his chiding and guiding, her occasionally stumbling until a ridiculous conversation about the price of corn escalated to nonsense.

      And she was doing it. Dancing the waltz, gliding and twirling and talking nonsense.

      They