Seduced at Midnight

She stopped in the center of the floor then turned toward him. The soft candle and firelight gilded her as if she'd been touched by an artist's brush. 'Indeed I am. Are you ready?'

'For what?'

'Your dance lesson.'

He could only stare. 'I beg your pardon?'

She laughed. 'Your dance lesson. To satisfy my part of our bargain. As I told you in the foyer, I thought it would be more enjoyable than a piano lesson, and, ahem, save everyone's ears.'

Ah. So that's what he'd missed while mentally planting her father a facer and consigning her mother to the privet hedges. And what he'd inadvertently agreed to. A refusal rose to his lips; it was ridiculous that he learn to dance. Of what possible use would such knowledge be to a Runner? Besides, he'd most likely tread upon her toes and make a complete fool of himself.

But then an image flashed in his mind… of Julianne dancing with the duke at Daltry's party. He vividly recalled how beautiful she'd looked. And how he'd envied the bastard for holding her in his arms. How badly he'd wished for those few impossible minutes that he was the man whirling her around the dance floor. Holding her hand in his. Touching the small of her back. Looking into those incredible eyes while the room swirled around them. A useless, foolish dream he'd savagely pushed aside. But now… a useless, foolish dream that could become reality.

'What if Winslow tells your parents?'

She shrugged. 'I promised to retire early-not immediately. And teaching a dance is really no different than teaching a song or a card game. 'Tis a lesson, nothing more. And the door will remain open so all is proper.'

Right. Except in a dance lesson he'd be able to touch her.

As if caught in a trance, he walked slowly toward her, his boots tapping against the polished wood floor. 'What about music?' he asked.

'I'll hum and sing.' Her lips twitched. 'We won't need to call upon your, um, formidable vocal, er, talents.'

He stopped when only two feet separated them, a distance that at once felt far too great and much too small.

In order to appear more imposing-and to make certain he didn't give in to the urge to yank her against him-he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. 'The way you say formidable leads me to believe that you mean something else entirely.'

Rather than looking intimidated, amusement gleamed in her eyes. 'Perhaps I do. Indescribable might be a more accurate assessment of your abilities.'

'You said earlier I can't sing worth a jot. In other words, I possess no musical talent at all.'

A dazzling smile lit her face. 'Actually no other words are necessary, as those words are perfect.'

He narrowed his eyes. 'How is it that you issue such insults yet don't look frightened?'

She made a dismissive gesture. 'Pshaw. You don't scare me.'

He deepened his scowl and leaned forward to loom over her, more amused than he cared to admit. 'No?'

'No. Oh, you can be very intimidating, especially with that frown, which is quite fierce, by the way. But underneath that crusty exterior is…' She tapped her finger on her chin and gave him a thorough look-over. 'Porridge.'

He leaned back and blinked, nonplussed. 'Crusty? Porridge?'

'Yes. Indeed, you remind me of a loaf of perfectly baked bread: hard on the outside, soft on the inside.'

'I've never heard such rot,' he muttered, shaking his head, torn between mirth and masculine indignation. 'Loaf of bread. Unbelievable.'

She hiked up a brow. 'You disagree with my assessment?'

'Heartily.'

'Hmmm. You sound… peeved. I assure you I meant it as a compliment.'

'To compare me to a loaf of bread?'

'That's not nearly as bad as you comparing me to a drunken porcupine.' Before he could say another word, she snapped her fingers. 'That's an even better description of you. You're like a porcupine-all sharp quills on the outside.'

'Thank you. So much. And on the inside?'

'Oh, still porridge.'

'What sort of porcupine has porridge on the inside?'

'The sort I'm comparing you to.'

'There is no such thing as a porcupine with porridge on the inside.'

She planted her hands on her hips. A tapping noise sounded, and he realized it was her foot rapping against the wood floor. 'Fine. On the inside you're porcupine innards-that are the consistency of porridge.'

'Oh, thank you,' he said in his driest tone. 'That's much better.'

'You're welcome. Has anyone ever told you that you don't accept compliments very graciously?'

He couldn't help but laugh. 'No, Princess, they haven't. I assure you I can accept them just fine-when one is actually given.'

A knowing look came over her features. 'Ah. Now I understand. You prefer pretty, flowery words.'

'Certainly not. Bow Street Runners don't like anything to do with flowery words.'

'Then you'll have to make do with either a loaf of bread or a porcupine with porridge for innards.'

'I don't see why, as I don't agree with either description.'

'Fine. Has anyone ever told you that just because you disagree you don't need to be disagreeable?'

'Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly fickle? A moment ago I was a perfectly baked loaf of bread. Now I'm disagreeable.'

A slow smile curved her lips. 'Only because you disagreed with me.'

His gaze lowered to her full lips, curved in that captivating smile, and he felt as if he were being sucked into a vortex. Bloody hell, she was enchanting. Literally so, as it appeared he'd fallen under some sort of spell. A spell cast by a beautiful princess, but one who kept proving herself so much more than merely beautiful on the outside. This princess was beautiful on the inside as well.

'Are you ready for your lesson?' she asked. 'I thought we'd try the waltz-unless you already know it?'

He shook his head-both as an answer and to shake off the stupor he'd fallen into. 'No, I don't know it. But I must warn you: your toes stand in grave jeopardy of suffering as much as your ears did this afternoon.'

Her eyes went soft, and his insides seemed to turn to-bloody hell-porridge. 'I suspect you'll be a marvelous waltzer. And I'm not the least bit worried about my toes.'

'Well, you should be. I'll be like an ox stomping about.'

'Then we have our work cut out for us and had best begin. After all, I must retire early. Can't have those unsightly dark circles under my eyes, you know.' The grin she shot him was downright naughty, and he found himself smiling in return-and biting his tongue to refrain from telling her that she couldn't