Her dress was one he’d never seen before. A pale rose with lace and flowers and...he could not find his thoughts. His hand was still out.
She placed hers upon his. Warm skin against his own. Louise watched them with a strange expression, but the music flowed and he did not take the time to analyze the look.
He could only be aware of the woman coming toward him, slight and graceful, with a message he could not decipher dancing deep in her gaze.
Then she was to him. He smoothed one hand down to her waist, pulling her against him. The other hand curled around hers, trapping her so that her upturned face silently asked questions to which he could not answer.
The music, a blend of violins and piano, pumped through his blood, carrying the beat of his heart until he couldn’t think. He only felt this woman in his arms, the way her steps haltingly matched his.
The scent of roses drifted from her hair, teasing him, begging him to draw her even closer. They looped around the room, her skirts swishing against his legs, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
And she did not speak, but there were words in her eyes. They locked gazes. He dipped his head against hers, dimly hearing Louise’s clapping in the background, the squeal of her excitement joining the song. Heat from Henrietta’s cheek brushed against his own, and he heard her faint intake of breath as he moved them across the floor.
His nerves thrummed. He had danced with countless women. In countless countries. Never had he felt this connection, this drawing. He wanted to kiss her.
Absolutely, unaccountably unacceptable.
But he would think about that later. He would grind these feelings to ashes and sweep them from his life. He could not make the promises she deserved to hear when his future was unknown.
The strains of the waltz were dying down, fading away, and he brought her to a halt in the middle of the room. How could such dark eyes glisten at him, swimming with emotions and thoughts, asking him his in return. Her lips parted, soft and rosy.
“Oh, that was so lovely, like watching an artist painting on a canvas.” Louise’s trilling voice wedged between them.
Henrietta removed her hand from his. She backed up, and he slid his palm slowly away from her waist. Too slowly, for she gave him a castigating glare that told him she knew exactly what he was doing and that she did not approve.
Casting him into the box of flirt again.
He belonged there. It was for the best.
Henrietta could never know of these feelings springing within him, unfurling and blooming. She must never realize, and if he had to play the part of superficial to keep her from ever seeing him as anyone better than he was, so be it.
* * *
“Miss Gordon, you have a caller.”
She looked up from the book she’d bought. The pictures were in-depth and well done, but so far she’d found nothing on epilepsy, nor how to treat it. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that Uncle William might know something of the disease.
She set the book to the side and stood, smoothing her skirts. Dominic’s butler wore a long face and bored eyes. She gave him a quick nod. “In the parlor?”
“In the hall.” With one long, disparaging look, he left.
Of course, he would find it beneath him to deliver a message to a mere governess. Clenching her jaw, she hurried out of her room and down to the main area of Dominic’s house.
The gilded door frames and large windows brought to her attention how exceptionally lovely and lush his home was. What would it be like to live here for the rest of her life?
Goose pimples skittered up her arms as she remembered their waltz.
No, she told herself firmly, descending the staircase.
Flirting was second nature to a man like Dominic. It meant nothing. Though, she must admit that perhaps she owed him an apology. After meeting so many people during the dinner, she had realized that the beau monde of London was much worse than him. Even Mr. Hodges, for all his good humor, struck her as unreliable.
As she neared the bottom of the stairs, she focused on the figure awaiting her. A serious, square-shouldered man with a physician’s cane and elaborate top hat. At first she thought it was Uncle William, but then she realized it was Mr. Moore.
One of her uncle’s dear friends.
“Mr. Moore, how do you do?” She curtsied, and he responded with a gentlemanly bow.
“Very well. I had heard you were in town and thought a walk about Hyde Park might be just the thing.” Thick gray eyebrows wiggled over gentle blue eyes. This man had sporadically been a part of her life as far back as to even when her parents had been alive.
“What a lovely surprise.” She hesitated. “I am governessing, at the moment, and will need to ask permission.” How that grated, but it could not be helped.
“What is this talk of permission?”
She spun around. Dominic strode into the hall, the lighthearted quirk on his lips setting her heart aflutter. As soon as that betraying physical response occurred, she struggled to contain it. She pasted a stern look upon her face, denying the smile that edged her lips.
She had fought very hard to not think of their dancing, of the hopes trembling on the precipice of her emotions. He could not just stride in here with his long legs and fancy-free demeanor and bring it all back. She refused to allow him the power.
“Is that why you’re scowling?” he asked, eyes twinkling. “You need not frown at me so, Miss Gordon.”
Mr. Moore inclined his head in greeting. “You must be Lord St. Raven. I am an old friend of Miss Gordon’s. We have studied many a medical mystery together, with her uncle. While in town, I thought it good to take
