The Perfect Waltz (6 page)

The primitive, dishonorable part of him wanted to take advantage of her distress, to keep her there, nestled against him as long as possible—preferably forever. The sensible part of him knew it was a foolish fantasy and reminded him that his duty was to protect her reputation, as well as her body. He eased back, saying gently, “You must be shaken. Shall I fetch you something—a drink perhaps? Or do you wish to sit the rest of the dance out?”

She laughed. “Oh, heavens no! I’m not such a feeble creature. And I wouldn’t dream of wasting a single moment of our first waltz.” She gave him a dazzling smile and said, “I’m enjoying myself immensely, aren’t you?”

He stumbled and cursed silently.
One, two-three. One, two-three.

She was enjoying it. Immensely.
“Our first waltz.”

Not simply “our waltz.” Our
first
one. As if she envisaged a long line of future waltzes with him. As if this first dance meant something to her, the way it did to him. His first-ever waltz. Perhaps his last. He had already resolved never to dance the waltz with another woman.

It took Sebastian several minutes to catch his rhythm again—her smile and her words quite robbed him of his concentration—but he prided himself on his self-control, and soon he had them twirling efficiently around the ballroom. He darted a glance at her to see if he could somehow divine whether or not she had meant it about the first waltz, or whether it was just a meaningless politeness.

To his surprise, she was watching him, an expression in her eyes he could not identify. She dimpled. He glanced around the dance floor but could not see what had so amused her. He looked back at her and frowned an inquiry.

Her eyes were brim-full of merriment. “It’s all right. I don’t mind that you’ve gone all silent again. It is difficult to dance and talk at the same time. I perfectly understand, and I promise I won’t bother you. When I danced at my first ball, I was terrified I would tread on my partner’s toes.”

Her voice was warmly sympathetic, but her words annoyed Sebastian. He was dancing quite efficiently. “It is not my first ball.”

“Your second, perhaps?” Her eyes twinkled at him, an impossible, glorious blue. His primitive instincts responded wildly. He grimly suppressed them.

It was true, of course, but he wasn’t going to admit it. She dimpled again, and as he twirled her onward in a precise, textbook manner, she added chattily, “I only recently learned to dance, too, you know. Monsieur Lefarge almost despaired of me at first, I was so inept. I could not get the rhythm right. I am so clumsy.”

Clumsy? It was ludicrous to imagine this dainty, thistle-down sprite as clumsy. Then her other words sank in, and he frowned.
Lefarge
. That was the name of his Frenchman.

Unaware, she continued, “For the longest time I had to count under my breath like this: one, two-three, one, two-three.” Her blue, blue eyes were almost dreamy as she added, “It was such an irony, to find myself such a dreadfully clumsy dancer. I so desperately wanted to learn to waltz, you see. To come to London and dance it in the arms of a handsome man was the summit of all my dreams.” She glanced at him, then looked away and blushed rosily.

The effect on him was instantaneous. Arousal. Sebastian was horrified. He’d never had it happen in public like this—not since he was a young boy. He half closed his eyes to will it away.

To cover his confusion, he blurted out, “Are you Miss Faith or Miss Hope?” And then cursed himself silently for sounding—and feeling—like a gauche boy.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

 
 
 
 
HOPE SMILED, LIKING HIS DIRECTNESS. PEOPLE OFTEN PRETENDED they could tell the twins apart, but very few could. “I am Hope. Faith is wearing sky blue tonight.”

He nodded. “Hope,” he said, and on his lips her name sounded special.

His accent was unself-conscious: cultured but with a faint, abrasive undertone of the north. It was different. She liked it. In her limited experience, people not born to the ton either were almost belligerently regional in accent or adopted painfully refined speech.

He was turning out to be altogether different from her initial imaginings. She was no longer so daunted by his tough-looking physique and the leashed power in his body. How could she, when he’d used it so effectively to protect her just now? But though it was too soon to tell what sort of man he was, the dance itself was proving very revealing, even if his conversation wasn’t.

“You did not say what brings you to London, Mr. Reyne.”

He twirled her in a rigid circle. “Various matters.”

“Oh, well, variety is nice. And where is your home?”

“I live in the north.”

He would never be accused of garrulity, Hope thought. “So, just a short stay in London?”

“Yes. A few weeks. Perhaps longer. It depends.”

Hope gave him a look of bright inquiry. “On what?”

He didn’t respond. She hadn’t really expected him to. Mrs. Jenner had said he was looking for a wife. He would hardly blurt that sort of information out on the dance floor. But he was busy retreating back into formality and distance, and Hope wanted to put a stop to that. The suspicion dawned that it was stubbornness that made him so closemouthed.

Hope had her own share of stubbornness. “And what are your impressions of the city?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I’ve been too busy to sightsee.”

“Oh, but that’s so dismal!” she exclaimed. “You cannot possibly visit London and not see all the famous sights. Why, when you return home, people will be quite cross with you if you cannot regale them with tales of your derring-do in the capital.”

He said in a quelling manner. “Most people know better than to expect me to regale them with tales of derring-do.”

Hope made a sympathetic moue. “How sad. But think how nice it will be to surprise them.”

“Most people prefer not to be surprised,” he said seriously.

Hope raised her brows. “Prefer not to be surprised? How strange. I adore surprises. I can see that you aren’t the loquacious sort, but it does not do to keep your light wholly under a bushel, you know. Though why anyone would keep a light under a bushel is beyond me, for a bushel is a measure of weight, is it not? I know my grandfather used to measure the wheat crop in bushels. It’s a strange expression, isn’t it?”

He made a neutral noise. Hope smiled to herself. She knew she was rattling on, but she was determined to provoke some sort of response out of him.

It was as if having petted the tiger and found him gentle, she was no longer as wary, and now was determined to provoke him to action.

She said chattily, “So who are your people at home? Would I like them?”

He gave her a forbidding look. Hope smiled artlessly up at him. She adored that stern face he put on. Tiger to lamb: “Stay away, or I’ll eat you.” Hope loved a challenge. The lamb skipped closer. One part of her wondered what on earth she was doing. The other part relished it.

She said, “It would be such a shame if you went back to wherever you live without a single tale of derring-do. Or a visit to a famous monument. Have you seen Lord Elgin’s marbles? He brought them back from Greece, you know, and they’re thousands of years old.”

“I have no interest in antiquities, Greek or otherwise.”

“Well of course you haven’t!” she said, pretending to be shocked. “Nobody is interested in antiquities! But the marbles are all the rage, so you must see them. One must be à la mode, you know. My young sister is fascinated by such things, so I have become quite familiar with them. If you would like a guide, then perhaps . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off suggestively. No gentleman of her acquaintance would be able to refuse such an opening.

He gave her a quick glance, and she felt his hand tighten around her waist, but she soon realized it was to hold her at a more rigid distance, and all he said was, “I have no interest in Lord Elgin’s marbles. Or anyone else’s.”

Drat the man! He was not a gentleman; she’d forgotten that.

The waltz drew to a close, and he bowed, thanked her, and escorted her off the floor. Mrs. Jenner came bustling up, Mr. Bemerton at her heels. She nodded coolly to Mr. Reyne and drew Hope’s arm through hers. “Let us withdraw a moment, my dear. Good-bye, Mr. Reyne, Giles,” she said in a less-than-subtle move.

Mr. Reyne bowed again, gave Hope a long, intense look that burned, and turned resolutely away, taking his friend, Giles Bemerton, with him.

Hope watched him stride away from her. She shivered, feeling cold now that she was no longer touching him. What a contradiction the man was. Having sought her out, he had determinedly kept her at a distance in more ways than one. Why?

And as for her own reactions . . . If he was a mass of contradictions, her own behavior was even less understandable. She was repelled by his strength yet drawn to his gentleness. He’d treated her with an unsmiling lack of charm, and it had charmed her. He’d made no attempt to ensnare her in any way, and yet when he looked at her in that intense, hungry way, she trembled deep inside.

She used to tremble when Grandpapa was in a rage. But it was not fear that made her tremble when Sebastian Reyne looked at her.

And when, in averting that accident, he’d held her hard against his big, tough body, she hadn’t felt alarmed in any way. In fact, she’d felt protected in a way that took away her breath.

 
Faith hurried up to join them. “We have been invited to a special concert at Lady Thorn’s next Thursday. Apparently there is a marvelous new violinist arrived in London—a Hungarian count, and by all accounts as dashing as he is skilled—and Lady Thorn has managed to secure him for a private soiree. I’m told ladies on the Continent have been known to faint, so overcome have they been by his divine music. May we go, please, Mrs. Jenner? May we?”

“Of course, my dear,” Mrs. Jenner assured her. “We had nothing in particular planned for that evening, and though I must say all violinists sound the same to me, I know how much you love your music, and at least if this Hungarian is handsome, Hope and I will have something to look at.”

Faith laughed. “Thank you. It will be wonderful, I’m sure. I am told he can make his instrument sing, and the vibrato he achieves—”

Mrs. Jenner patted her hand. “Yes, yes, my dear. Now, there is Sir Oswald and Lady Augusta. The poor man looks positively puce after that long waltz. It can’t be good for him at his age, but will he admit it? Why don’t you girls ask him to escort you into the garden to cool off, and while you do that, I will . . . catch up with a few acquaintances.”

She glanced at Hope as she said it. She was going to collect gossip about Mr. Reyne.

Hope was torn. Part of her wanted to know every little thing about him. Another part of her wanted to ignore the gossip and unravel his mysteries slowly for herself. Gossip never spoke kindly about anyone. But Mrs. Jenner would not be stopped, she realized. It was a chaperone’s job to check such things.

Faith interrupted her thoughts. “Poor Uncle Oswald, he looks so hot, and Lady Gussie looks as cool as a cucumber. Come on Hope, let us rescue the poor dear from his masculine pride.” Her sister linked arms with Hope, and they walked up to where their red-faced guardian was standing, trying not to puff.

Lady Augusta Montigua del Fuego fanned herself delicately with an ebony fan. As the girls came up, she said, “A gorgeous big brute you had there for the waltz, Hope, my dear. I do like those big, dark, dangerous-looking fellows. Those shoulders . . .” She sighed appreciatively. “If I were half my age, I’d cut you out for him, you know. Did he live up to expectations?”

Great Uncle Oswald huffed disapprovingly. Lady Gussie winked at Hope.

Hope grinned back. “He was . . . most intriguing.”

Faith looked at her in surprise.

Lady Gussie’s eyebrows waggled suggestively. “Intriguing—I like the sound of that. He reminds me of my second husband—the Argentinean. He was the big, dark, brooding type, too . . .” She sighed reminiscently. “And a devil in b—” She caught her cicisbeo’s eye and amended it. “—when roused to passion.”

Great Uncle Oswald spluttered, “Gussie!”

Lady Augusta said with an innocence that deceived no one, “Well, he did have a very bad temper!” She gave their great-uncle a look from beneath her lashes and added in a dulcet tone, “You have the same . . . fierce temper, too, Oswald.” She batted her eyelashes rapidly.

Hope and Faith giggled. Great Uncle Oswald tried to frown, but he was so delighted by the improper compliment that his eyebrows just waved about indecisively. He was blushing so hard, Hope thought he would explode.

“It’s very hot in here,” she said hastily. “Let us go outside for some cool air.”

Lady Gussie chuckled. Hope linked arms with Great Uncle Oswald, and her twin took Lady Gussie’s. For an old lady well on the shady side of fifty, Lady Gussie was not the slightest bit proper. It was an open society secret that Great Uncle Oswald had been trying to get her to marry him for the last two years, but she was in no mood to be tied down just yet. She’d been widowed twice already, she said, and if that didn’t tell him something, it should. For the first time in her life she was enjoying being a widow and an exceedingly merry one, too.

Hope had even heard her say once that Oswald could make merry with her to his heart’s content, but marry him she would not! In the past, she and Faith had speculated for hours as to whether that meant Lady Gussie was Great Uncle Oswald’s mistress.

Now Hope doubted no more, and from the look on Faith’s face, she agreed. It was quite shocking—at their age, too!—but all the same, rather sweet.

It would be lovely to still be in love when one was old, thought Hope wistfully. She so longed to be in love. There were some days when the hollow, aching, emptiness inside her was almost too painful to bear.