She did not look at him, and in her peripheral vision, he was a blur along the edge of her glasses, but she could feel him watching her. When it seemed as if they had traveled the length of the corridor a thousand times, he stopped her.
“Excellent, Miss Wade,” he said, as they returned to the room where they had begun. “You have a certain natural grace. No doubt you will dance well. But I advise you to wear stays. It will aid you in maintaining perfect posture. Besides, if you do not wear them, I fear you will shock your partner when he puts his hand on your waist for a waltz.”
He walked to the fireplace, reached for the musical box on the mantel, and began to wind the key. “Just do not fall into the silly habit some women have of lacing them too tightly, or you will faint on the ballroom floor.”
“Is it proper for you to be mentioning my undergarments?” she countered with as much dignity as she could command.
He paused in his task and met her gaze. “I believe I was mentioning your lack of one,” he said gravely, but one corner of his mouth lifted in a teasing half smile. She had seen that smile a few times, and she was actually coming to like it. She found herself smiling back.
He set the box back on the mantel, and the music began to play.
“The waltz is a very simple dance,” he said as he returned to stand in front of her. He took her right hand in his left, and put his other hand on her waist. Daphne felt herself tensing at once.
“Relax, Miss Wade.”
“I am quite relaxed,” she lied.
“Are you? Your body tells me something different.” He loosened their clasped hands until their fingers were barely laced together, then he rocked their hands in a slow, circular motion. “Do not make yourself uneasy. I am not going to make any further attempts to ravish you. At least,” he amended, “not at this moment. Relax.”
Daphne wanted to do so, but the idea of being ravished by him now or at any other moment made her feel strange, as if she had taken a second glass of wine at dinner. She remembered their picnic that afternoon, and how he had almost kissed her. Now, she was acutely aware of his hand against her waist, and she had to fight the impulse to shy away. All of a sudden, the room felt too warm for dancing.
“When you waltz,” Anthony went on, not seeming to notice the blush in her cheeks, “the first thing to remember is proper distance. You stand about one foot from your partner, just as we are now. Put your hand on my shoulder.”
She did, her hand hesitating an inch away for a moment before coming to rest on the crisp wool of his dark green jacket. Against her palm, she could feel the hard muscles of his shoulder. The sight of him without his shirt flashed across her mind to torture her again. She knew every chiseled contour of his chest, for she had not only drawn each of them in charcoal, but etched them on her mind. Heat pooled in her midsection, and she forced herself to focus on what he was saying.
“The second thing to remember about dancing is that I lead and you follow. Your body goes where mine tells it to go.”
“I think I would prefer it the other way round.”
“Would you?” he murmured. “An interesting notion, Miss Wade. Perhaps one day, I will let you.” He lifted her hand in his, the palm of his other hand warm against her side. “The waltz is a dance with very simple steps and a cadence of one-two-three. Like this.”
He started to move, pulling her with him, but she looked down at their feet, and he brought her to a halt at once. “The third thing to remember is to look at me, Miss Wade, not at the floor.”
“But what if I tread on your feet?”
“I am certain I shall survive it. Do not worry about making mistakes. After all, it is only me who is watching, and you do not care what I think.” He began moving again, and she moved with him as he counted in time with the pinging melody of the musical box. “One-two-three,” he said, leading her in a swirling pattern around the ballroom floor. “One-two-three.”
She felt quite clumsy, pulled around the room this way, but even with all the times she stumbled over his feet and brought them to a halt, he did not express a hint of impatience. He simply made her try again. And again.
“You are doing very well, truly,” he assured her as he rewound the musical box for their third waltz. “I knew you would dance well.”
“You are a good teacher,” she confessed as he returned to where she stood in the center of the room. “I just wish I did not feel so horribly awkward.”
“That requires practice.” He lifted her hand in his again, and they began to move in the steps of the dance, with Anthony reminding her to look at him every time she began to lower her chin as they danced.
“I keep thinking the only way to prevent myself from treading on your feet is to look down,” she confessed. “But despite my efforts, I fear your feet will be black and blue before this evening is over.”
“Then you should be very appreciative of the sacrifice I am making on your behalf.”
She looked at him with mock sympathy. “Poor man. How you must be suffering. Although it could be worse, I daresay. I could be very stout.”
His hand tightened at her waist. “That would be a shame,” he murmured, his gaze meeting hers, “but you would still have those incredible eyes.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs and she nearly stumbled again. “You dance well yourself,” she said, veering the subject away from herself. She did not want him to pay her compliments, for she could not believe they were sincere. “Why do you dislike it?”
“In truth, it is not dancing itself I dislike. It is the consequences of it I abhor, so I have come to dislike it.”
“What do you mean? What consequences?”
