Belatedly offering one of those deferential dips, Julia couldn’t help the swell of regret at the end of that all-too-fleeting dream and wonderment.
“Quite the quick study, isn’t she?” Her Grace called over. “Just required the right instructor.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Catching Julia’s eye, Harris winked, a teasing, yet still-seductive fluttering of those long tawny lashes that put them as players in a game.
“You’ve handily taught the girl the waltz,” the duchess said.
“Might I advise Her Grace, the lady would be best served to learn the quadrille,” Mr. Dour intoned.
While the duchess and her friends went back and forth with the bold-in-his-opinion Mr. Dour, Harris leaned down and whispered, “Though hardly as enjoyable as the waltz, there’s a different pleasure that comes from the quadrille.”
Her heart thumping, she looked up. “A… different pleasure.” Whatever pleasure found could certainly never match what she’d known while waltzing with him.
“The quick parting and coming together with one’s partner, the fleeting touch of taking a hand and then losing that connection, and the thrill of waiting for the next time you might lock fingers when you are reunited each time,” he said. The husky timbre of his baritone sent a million little shivers racing along her back. Harris’ gaze slipped to her mouth, his attention hovering upon it, and for a moment, she thought he intended to kiss her publicly. For an even greater moment, she wanted him to.
But then his lips formed a wry half grin.
“Harris?” The duchess’ impatient query brought his attention thankfully away from a hopelessly besotted Julia, sparing her from the humiliating fascination she had with him.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called over to the duchess, “I was explaining the quadrille to the lady, Your Grace.”
“Well, we are trying to determine which the girl needs to master now, so do attend us, Harris.” Lady Cowpen thumped that cane Julia had come to find the elegant peeress used as a stylish accessory.
Harris touched a hand to his chest and bowed his head in a show of exaggerated penitence that earned a bevy of laughter from the ladies at the side of the ballroom.
And there was a keen sense of… disappointment. That was all he’d been. He’d stepped in as a de facto dancing teacher, and she’d merely been the beneficiary of his talents. He, a man who moved with such grace and with a command of his every step, had undoubtedly charmed every woman who’d stepped into his arms. Every one of those ladies—just like Julia—had certainly been lured by his pull and mastery, and she hated that realization, for it served to remind her that she was not somehow different or special to him. A man who charmed as he did—that dark-haired beauty in the streets, the three women before them, Julia… There was no doubting the reasons he’d earned the reputation of rogue that his godmother had spoken of. And she hated herself for the sting of jealousy and the heavy regret those truths brought.
“Which one do you think it should be, Harris?” the duchess shouted over.
“You know my opinions on most sets outside the waltz and in some part the quadrille.”
Her Grace snorted. “The less touching, the better.”
“Ah.” He lifted a finger and waved it at the trio. “The more fun, the better.”
The duchess froze and then laughed. “Do not even think of it. Enough of your roguish nonsense—” Her commands were in vain, as Harris had already released Julia and headed at a quick clip for the trio of ladies.
The countesses chortled as he came, his arms up as he went.
“Harris, cease that this instant,” the duchess said. “I’m entirely too old for these games.”
Except, it did not escape Julia’s notice the small smile that teased the woman’s lips the moment her godson reached her side, or the way she slid her hand onto Harris’ sleeve. With that, he proceeded to shuffle the pair of them at a quick clip along the dance floor.
Julia hurriedly vacated the place she had at the center of the room, allowing that unlikely pair full command of the floor.
The woman and her godson moved at a brisk, sideways gait.
It was the most tender, heartwarming dance she’d ever witnessed between a man and a woman who was very clearly like a mother to him. Julia had never known that tenderness in any way with even her own mother, who’d been so bent on surviving, there hadn’t been time for much affection.
In that very instant, watching Harris and the duchess laughing, Julia lost her heart to him all over again.
There’d be room enough for terror later, when the thousand fears and horrors learned in her lifetime of struggle and strife won out and reminded her that those who played with fire were invariably consumed and destroyed by it. But in this moment, she saw only Harris, a dashing rogue, a strikingly handsome gentleman not off drinking and wagering, as the duchess had accused him of, but rather, here, waltzing with Adairia’s godmother.
“He is quite a dear boy, isn’t he?”
She started. Having been so absorbed in her greatest of falls, Julia had failed to note Lady Cowpen’s approach.
“The dearest,” she said, her voice heavy with emotion.
The other countess took up a place at Julia’s opposite side. “He’s got a reputation of being a rogue, and he presents a cynical side to the world, but he’s still the lovable, good-hearted boy he always was.”
Lovable.
Good-hearted.
Yes, there could be no doubting, in the short time she’d come to know him and witness him and his kindness, that he cared deeply for the women before him. And Harris was the manner of man who, when he cared, he would defend and protect until the end.
As she watched him and the duchess, sadness filled
