Simply Unforgettable

He suddenly felt as if the taproom fire were scorching him through to the marrow of his bones. And with his eyes intently holding hers, he knew that she felt the same way.

“No.” The word came out on a breath of sound. She cleared her throat. “No.”

“Well, then.” He turned fully, made her an elegant leg, and reached out one hand, palm up. “May I have the pleasure of this set, ma’am?”

“How absurd!” she said again, but the color was high in both cheeks now, and her eyes were huge and bright, and he knew that she was his.

She set her hand in his, and his fingers closed about it.

Yes, they would waltz together at the very least.

At the very least!

And perhaps he would remember her even this time next year.

He carried two candles in tall holders up the stairs while she carried one, which she took into her room in order to find a shawl in her portmanteau. She wrapped it about her shoulders before going into the Assembly Room, taking her candle with her.

He had placed his at either end of the room, which was not really very large at all. He took hers from her hand and strode across to the fireplace opposite the door to set it on the mantel. He must have made a quick visit to his room too. He was wearing shoes in place of his Hessian boots.

This was terribly foolish, she thought. They were actually going to dance together? Without company, without music, without heat?

No, there was heat aplenty. And foolishness could sometimes feel marvelously exhilarating. She held the ends of her shawl and tried to steady her heartbeat as he came back across the room, his eyes intent on hers, looking distinctly dangerous. He repeated the elegant, marvelously theatrical bow he had made her downstairs, and cocked one eyebrow.

“Ma’am?” he said. “This is my dance, I believe.”

“I believe it is, sir.” She dipped into a low curtsy, set her hand in his, and felt the warmth of his fingers close strongly about hers again.

They spoke and behaved frivolously as if this were some amusing lark.

It felt anything but.

It felt downright sinful.

But, good heavens, they were only going to dance together.

He led her to the center of the floor and stood facing her.

“I confess,” he said, “that my experience with the waltz is somewhat limited. Let me see. My right hand goes here, I believe.”

Holding her eyes with his own, he slid it about her waist to come to rest against the small of her back. She could feel the heat of it through her wool dress and chemise—and there went her heartbeat again.

“And my left hand goes here.” She set it on his broad shoulder, a few inches above the level of her own—and there went the bones in her knees.

“And—” He held up his left hand and raised his eyebrows.

“This.” She placed her palm against his and curled her fingers in between his thumb and forefinger even as his own fingers closed over the back of her hand.

Her shawl, she suddenly felt, had been quite an unnecessary addition even though the air she was inhaling was chilly. She was terribly aware that his broad chest, encased behind his expertly tailored coat and the pristine shirt and elegantly tied neckcloth, was only inches away from her bosom. And that his face was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.

Her eyes were locked with his.

It was no wonder some people still considered the waltz an improper dance. It had felt nothing like this at the school. And they had not even started it yet.

“The music, ma’am?” His voice was low, even husky.

“Oh, dear,” she said. Was she going to have breath enough for this?

But she had had experience singing when she was nervous. Not this type of nervousness, it was true, but even so . . . It was a matter of breathing from deep in the diaphragm, where the air could be stored and released gradually, instead of from the throat, from which the nerves would expel it all in one breathy whoosh.

Now if she could just think of a waltz tune. If she could just think of any tune—other than a William Byrd madrigal, that was.

She closed her eyes, breaking at least some of the tension, and remembered the rhythm and the pleasure of waltzing with Mr. Huckerby, who was a very good dancer even if he was rather a fussy man and even if he did always smell strongly of lilies of the valley.

She hummed softly to herself for a few moments, and then she opened her eyes, smiled at Mr. Marshall, and hummed more loudly and firmly, emphasizing the first beat of each measure.

His right hand tapped the rhythm lightly against her back and then tightened slightly as he led her off into the steps of the waltz—small, tentative steps at first and then gaining in confidence, until after a minute or so they were moving with long, firm, rhythmic steps and twirling about until she could have sworn there were a dozen candles instead of just three.