For Dahlia, the most unreal part of executing a double flip off a supper sideboard onto the school’s dancing rug wasn’t the men’s trousers covering her legs or the squeals of her students as she flew through the air, but the fact that she had an audience at all.

Other than with her sisters—and her brother Heath, who had taught her acrobatics for lack of anyone else to play with—her facility with contortion and fearlessness to taking flight had always been a well-kept secret. If her parents had ever suspected their children of practicing the tumbling feats they witnessed at the circus, they would have ceased the family outings altogether and likely forbade Heath and Dahlia from being in the same room.

When Heath grew of age, he was able to join Gentleman Jackson’s, and practice fisticuffs with all the other fashionable gentlemen.

For Dahlia, there was no such outlet. Without her brother, she could only tumble alone, which was both less fun and less safe than their previous teamwork.

It was the one moment in her otherwise unremarkable life when excitement raced through her veins and every nerve came alive. Colors were brighter, sounds sharper, her reflexes lightning fast.

For years, tumbling had always been her favorite pastime. Her truest self. And, above all, her most guarded secret.

Until now.

She couldn’t let anyone outside of her school know of her activities. But here, inside these walls, she and her girls would be free to be themselves.

“Today’s class is not about acrobatics,” Faith called over the noisy cheers.

The students booed good-naturedly.

“That’s right.” Dahlia drew herself up in the center of the room and clapped her hands for attention. “Today’s tumbling class is about two things: exercise, and self-defense. If it goes well, we’ll do it weekly. Especially during inclement weather.”

“I hope it always rains!” shouted a girl in the back to loud laughter.

“Next lesson in self-defense,” Dahlia announced. “Always be aware of your surroundings. Are there people? Slippery surfaces? Sharp edges?”

“You was in the Army?” one of the students called out.

“Worse,” Dahlia answered. “I have a brother.”

The girls erupted in giggles.

“The reason we want to know who else is within shouting distance,” Dahlia continued, “is because the best way to win a fight is not to get in one at all. If help is near, or someone who could go find help, that is always the first step. With luck, it’s the only step needed to a peaceful resolution.”

“What if nobody else is near?” called out one of the girls.

“What if there’s lots, and all of them are bad people?” called another.

Dahlia nodded. “That’s why you’re paying attention to sharp edges and slippery surfaces.”

“So you can push them?”

“Precisely. And so you don’t hurt yourself. In many situations, our biggest enemy is ourselves. When you panic, you lose logic. You can’t think. You only react. That’s why you have to be aware of your situation well before panic sets in.”

“But how?”

“You train yourself to pay attention. Your brain can learn to do it automatically.” Dahlia took a step back. “Everyone, close your eyes.”

“Miss Digby’s eyes aren’t closed,” called a voice.

“Neither are yours!”

“Everyone means everyone. Ready?” Dahlia grinned at Faith. “Without opening your eyes, name the slippery surfaces inside this room.”

“The center carpet?”

“The wood, when we wax it.”

“Top of the sideboard!”

“Not for Headmistress.”

Dahlia clapped her hands. “Open your eyes. Did you miss anything? If you can’t call for help, your next goal is running away. Without tripping over branches or slipping on pebbles or falling against a sharp surface.”

“What if you can’t run away?” called a student.

“What if he catches you first?” called another.

Dahlia knew that “he” meant someone different for every one of them. It was her hope to save her students from finding themselves in those situations again.

“Step three,” she said. “Twisting out of an unwanted grasp. Miss Digby and I have been practicing. Let us see if I can escape her grip.”

Given that Dahlia had been escaping her elder brother’s best holds for nearly fifteen years, Faith would have little chance of keeping Dahlia trapped. But the self-defense segments before the tumbling classes weren’t about standing still—it was about breaking away.

More than that, it was about giving hope to twenty-four little girls. All the lessons in the world wouldn’t enable them to overpower a man twice their size. Their attacker would know that. He’d be counting on intimidation to do most of the subduing.

What the girls had was the element of surprise. Their attacker might anticipate a tug on the wrist, a feeble kick to the leg. Tears. What he wouldn’t be expecting were the moves Dahlia was about to teach her girls today. All they needed was a single second’s surprise or weakness to break free and run for help. She would give them every advantage she could.

“Form a circle, and pay close attention,” she called. “I’m going to show you several different options. First you’ll practice with each other, and then every one of you is going to try to escape me. Ready?”

“Ready!” The girls scrambled into a circle around Dahlia and Faith.

By the time the hour-long exercise class was over, two hours had passed in a flash. The girls were sweaty and excited and energized. Some were better than others already.

But all of them now had hope.

“Baths,” Faith called out. “Two lines, come with me.”

Dahlia sagged against the sideboard as the girls filed out of the room after Faith.

Dahlia’s exhaustion was emotional, rather than physical. She had spent more time watching and coaching the girls than feigning being an attacker, but keeping her eyes on twenty-four students at once was an impossible task. Twenty-four students who considered her their family. Twenty-four children who counted on her to keep them safe.

She wouldn’t always be there, looking over their shoulders. Maybe the school would outlive Dahlia, and maybe it wouldn’t last more than a few years. Either way, at some point the girls would strike out on their own. They would be old enough to find work. Homes of their own.

Perhaps even fall in love.

A knock sounded on the front door.

Dahlia waited a second, until she realized all the girls were off having baths. There was no one to answer the door. Not that she could do it herself—not in trousers and her brother’s old shirt, anyway. This time, her dress was upstairs in her wardrobe.

The knock sounded again.

With a sigh, she pushed away from the sideboard and jogged to the locked front door.

“Who is it?” she asked, doing her best to disguise her voice.

The caller paused, then said, “Miss Grenville?”

Mr. Spaulding. Dahlia ran a hand through her tousled hair, then grimaced when she recalled that was the least of her concerns. If he’d been shocked to briefly spy her in trousers before their first dancing class, he’d fall into a dead swoon if he saw her like this.

“If this is a bad time,” he began.

“No,” she blurted. She didn’t want him to leave. She just… “Are you alone?”

“Yes, why?”

She unlocked the door, jerked him in by the wrist, and slammed the door shut behind him. “If you’d been in my class, you would have been able to break free of my grip.”

“Why would I want…” His eyes darkened as he took in her form-fitting outfit. “What are you wearing?”

“The latest fashion,” she assured him. “I just failed to check whether the invoice said ‘gentlemen’ or ‘ladies.’”

He frowned at the too-long hems. “You purchased these garments?”

“I borrowed them.” She sighed and cleared her throat. “Permanently.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “From a lover?”

Dahlia stared at him, secretly overjoyed at the possessive, highly improper question. Mr. Spaulding wasn’t shocked or appalled at catching her in men’s clothing. He was jealous.

“Why do you ask?” she asked lightly, touching her fingers to the front of his waistcoat. He caught her wrists. She didn’t try to break free.

“You must tell me if there’s someone else,” he growled.

She lifted her lashes and let him see the truth in her eyes. “How could there be anyone else?”

He pulled her arms about his neck and covered her mouth with his.

After a lifetime dreaming of her first kiss, Dahlia had spent the last several weeks praying it would be with Mr. Spaulding. He did not disappoint.

His lips were as firm as she had imagined, his mouth as hot and demanding. Every inch of his body seemed tightly coiled. Being pressed up against such a breathtaking package of hard, solid muscle made Dahlia feel all the more soft and feminine.

Her knees were weak, it was true, but the real reason she held fast about his neck was because the last thing she wanted was for him to let go. A kiss like this wasn’t to be dispatched with swiftly, but rather to be enjoyed. Savored.

Every brush of his lips, every lick of his tongue against hers, sent shivers of pleasure along her skin and made her clutch him all the tighter. Her heart beat wildly, each frantic pulse in her breath pressing her closer and closer to him.

This was no longer a kiss.

This was a claiming.

A taking.

What was unclear was whether either of them were winning the battle. It felt like they both were drowning, melding into each other until nothing existed but the thunder of their heartbeats and the hunger in their kisses. Her thoughts were no longer her own, her body less so.

This was how virgins got despoiled. At this point, it was practically her idea. Now that she had sampled a taste of heaven, she no longer wished to settle for mere kisses. She wanted to feel his hands not spanning the many layers of muslin hiding her curves, but rather touching her bare skin. She wanted to know every inch of him.

“Miss Grenville,” he murmured between kisses each hungrier than the last. “We shouldn’t.”

Of course they shouldn’t. That was part of what tasted so intoxicating.

“Dahlia,” she whispered as she nibbled the edge of his lip. “I believe you know me well enough to call me Dahlia, Mr. Spaulding.”

“Simon,” he growled, capturing her mouth with his so she couldn’t keep talking.

But everything she wished to say, she was telling him with her body. Her fingers gripping his hair, her gasps against his jaw, her hips pressed to his—all of it was an eloquent conversation that bore no need for words.

He had no need to ask if she wanted him. To wonder whether it would be all right with her if he ripped her trousers from her body and taught her the advantages of being a woman. If he didn’t start soon, she might begin ripping fabric herself.

“We cannot,” he panted as he tore his mouth from hers.

Before she could do more than clutch her hands to her thundering chest, he spun toward the door and strode out into the night.