A half hour later, Tuck had his answer.
“Mam’selle can’t dance.”
Tuck glanced up at Monsieur Ponthieux. “Whatever do you mean, ‘mam’selle can’t dance’?”
The Frenchman made an inelegant snort. “Have we not been in the same room, monsieur?”
Sadly, they had. And as much as he wanted to argue with Ponthieux’s opinion, he didn’t bother wasting his breath.
To his credit, Ponthieux had transformed his large room to make it appear that he did still teach dancing, and had even dusted off the old pianoforte in the corner, which Tuck had been enlisted to play.
It all appeared a legitimate and perfectly respectable enterprise.
Save for the moment Miss Tempest took her first step. Right onto poor Ponthieux’s foot.
After she’d trod all over the Frenchman’s toes, he’d fetched a compatriot from across the hall to be her partner. After all, the man was a portrait painter by trade, and being hobbled by Miss Tempest wouldn’t ruin his livelihood.
“I could teach a pug to do a better reel.” Ponthieux flinched as once again the lady on the dance floor went one way and her partner the other.
“Now see here, Ponthieux, you go too far,” Tuck told him, but the dancing master wasn’t listening, for he had waded back out into the fray, his staff pounding into the floor. Reluctantly, Tuck drew his hands back from the keys.
“Non! Non! Non! Mademoiselle, you must go left!”
She glanced over her right shoulder. “This isn’t my left?”
Monsieur buried his face in his hands, while his neighbor took the free moment to shake out his bruised and battered feet. Tuck saw his future seeping into the deepest reaches of the Thames—where they would most likely find his body.
If anyone bothered to look.
“Oh, dear,” Miss Tempest said, biting at her lower lip as she gazed down at her boots, both of which must seem like her left. She glanced over at Tuck and tried to smile.
“Perhaps if she could just manage a few basic steps,” Tuck suggested. “If you were to help her—”
Ponthieux wheeled around on Tuck, and stalking forward, he whispered, “Do I tell you what to wager on?”
“Uh, no.” He glanced over toward Miss Tempest to ensure she hadn’t heard.
“Exactly. If I did, you wouldn’t be in these straits.” He threw up his hands and stomped around in a circle, muttering in French about English foolery and ungainly misses.
Tuck began to play again to drown him out, leaving Miss Tempest’s partner no choice but to dance with her anew.
But not for long.
“Mademoiselle! That is not your left.”
Tuck stopped playing, and a trembling sort of silence filled the room.
The ill-fated painter spoke first. In rapid French. Tuck followed most of it, and wished he couldn’t.
Miss Tempest’s French appeared to equal her dancing, so thankfully she couldn’t understand a word. “Whatever is he saying?”
Before Ponthieux could translate, Tuck got up from the pianoforte, clapping as he came forward. “Monsieur’s assistant was just comparing your dancing to a summer cloud—light and airy.”
The other two men in the room gaped at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Such tremendous improvement,” he continued, taking her hand and spinning her about.
At the same time, minding his boots.
She came to a bit of stumbling halt. “Truly?”
And when she looked up at him, something in her starry eyes struck him.
Miss Tempest actually believed him.
And then he remembered what the Honorable liked to say in these situations—a belief always trumps the truth.
Of course the Honorable had been teaching him how to bluff his way through a tough card game, yet Tuck had learned from more than one bad hand that sometimes everyone else at the table could be convinced to believe the same lie.
He shot a hot glance over at Ponthieux, enough so to change the man’s dirge-like tune.
“Yes, yes, mam’selle, that last turn was most elegant,” the dancing master managed with smooth grace.
The painter was not as well-mannered and continued to grumble.
Thankfully, in French.
“Here, allow me,” Tuck said, taking her into his arms.
His arm curved around her waist, his palm coming to rest at her hip, while he caught hold of her hand, letting their palms meet.
Then, to his shock, something rare happened.
If he was willing to believe in such things, it was as if the stars in her eyes had fallen around them, illuminating something long lost and forgotten.
Perhaps it was just the way their hands fit together—like a kiss, lips barely touching and yet . . .
Tuck stilled. For this wasn’t just the sweet twinkling notes of longing that Ponthieux was finding as he warmed up his fingers at the pianoforte, nor was it because he hadn’t held a woman in a long time.
He’d held this very one the other night at Almack’s.
But until now, the memory of that dance had been relegated into a haze of recollections—after all, he’d been a bit squiffy.
Oh, demmit, he’d been drunk.
Yet suddenly his body remembered, and some other part of him recalled that first time he’d held her.
They’d danced. His eyes widened a bit as he remembered. Good God, they had!
They had danced. Perfectly. Elegantly.
With Lavinia Tempest back in his arms, he remembered. And as he looked down at the lady, this time sober as a judge, he realized a very fine distinction: at Almack’s he hadn’t doubted her.
In fact, he’d been a bit taken aback by his uncle’s country miss.
So as monsieur’s fingers swiftly found a lively German tune on the pianoforte, Tuck grinned at the lady in his arms and began to dance.
Because he believed.
Lavinia didn’t need to speak French to know her dancing lesson was a dismal failure. One look at the poor fellow pressed into service to act as her partner, limping as he was now to the nearest chair, told the sad truth.
She was an utter failure when it came to dancing. That hadn’t stopped Mr. Rowland from putting his best foot—literally speaking—forward and praising her attempts. It was kind of him, but she knew a Banbury tale when she heard one.
Yet she had to give Mr. Rowland his due, for here he was, queuing up for his turn. Which she supposed only confirmed his reputation as a foolhardy gambler.
Hadn’t he witnessed enough carnage over the last half hour?
Apparently not, for he nodded to monsieur to play—and the Frenchman did, striking up a sweeping tune, much to her horror. He expected her to dance to that?
Perhaps this was Ponthieux’s revenge on Mr. Rowland.
All Lavinia could do was close her eyes.
But not for long. As Rowland took her in his arms, she shivered. Then panicked a bit, remembering that a proper lady would not find the way he held her, the way his fingers curled around hers so . . . so . . . wonderful.
Worse, she tried to still her hammering heart by taking a deep breath, only to find her senses teased with a masculine cologne. Bay rum. Something a bit smoky. A note of danger that had her lashes fluttering open and finding Alaster Rowland gazing down at her with a bewildered expression.
“What?” she asked, for certainly she hadn’t trod on him.
At least not yet.
“Nothing,” he replied after a few moments, glancing over her shoulder at Monsieur Ponthieux as if he’d just remembered something he’d distinctly forgotten. Then he whispered into her ear, “Just follow me, Livy,” and they began to move.
Follow me. Those words lured her. Entwined her.
She should be outraged that he’d used such gross familiarity with her. Livy, indeed! No one had ever called her that.
Why of all the impertinent, scandalous, rakish . . .
And then Lavinia looked up and realized she was doing exactly as he’d asked. Following him.
When Mr. Rowland whirled, she whirled. When he stepped one way, she went as well.
Follow me.
Good gracious heavens, somehow this man had once again worked his knavish enchantment on her, and she was dancing.
“I cannot believe this,” she managed as he whirled her about the floor—and nothing toppled over in her wake.
“Whyever not?” he asked, smiling. “I remember distinctly your doing much the same the other night.”
“But before—” She glanced over at her previous partner, who was still rubbing his toes.
“My poor performance at the pianoforte,” Mr. Rowland told her with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Lavinia wasn’t that foolish. “Hardly. You actually play quite well.”
“You needn’t sound so surprised.”
“You don’t strike me as a man with the patience to learn to play.”
“It was my aunt. Your godmother. She insisted I learn. Said it would give me something civilized to do.” He glanced away at the memory. “No one naysayed her. She had a charming way about her that had one agreeing to the most outlandish suggestions.”
That explained much as to why Lord Charleton and Lady Aveley had both agreed to honor Lady Charleton’s dying wish to see her goddaughters brought out in society—even knowing of the likely backlash they might encounter.
“Still, my previous attempts can hardly be blamed on your playing,” she insisted.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Then obviously you only require the right partner to make you the most captivating woman in the room.”
Her first thought was to tartly tell him that she was the only woman in the room, but she couldn’t do it. Not when she was rather fixed on the other words he’d uttered.
. . . the right partner . . .
Even made with an airy jest, they sent her heart racing. For certainly, Mr. Rowland wasn’t the right partner. He just couldn’t be.
Yet when he made one more grand turn, the entire world blurred around her as she found herself gazing up at his lips—parted just slightly and so very perfect.
Her lips opened as if seeking something, air perhaps, for he seemed to surround her when he held her. Protected her from herself.
Worse, when he looked down at her, his eyes all dark and smoky, a terribly, desperate shiver ran through her.
No, more of a desire. To be held so much closer. To be kissed. Thoroughly.
Kissed?
She blinked and realized that the music had stopped. Had been for a few seconds.
“Well done, Miss Tempest,” he whispered again, right into the shell of her ear, and his breath teased at her much as his eyes did. “If you look as pretty as you do this very moment, there isn’t a man in London who will be able to resist you.”
Then he squeezed her fingers and let go of her.
When he did, she stumbled just a little bit, as if suddenly set adrift atop a restless sea.
But the only thing restless, tossing about like hungry waves, was her heart.
Oh, no, no, no! She wanted to protest, much as Monsieur had earlier. No.
She turned her back to Mr. Rowland and did her best to compose herself, remind herself that she was determined to find a respectable partner in life. One with a solid inheritance or, better still, already in possession of his title and good fortune.
Still, when she looked over her shoulder at Mr. Rowland, speaking as he was in low tones to Monsieur Ponthieux, she had to admit it wouldn’t be so bad if her future spouse was also a bit charming, with a smile that sent a breathless sense of not knowing what was going to happen next, only the knowledge that when it did, it would leave one dizzy.
She shivered and glanced around for her pelisse. The room was warm—but suddenly she had a terrible chill of foreboding. Not to mention she had better sense than this.
No, she was just dizzy from the dancing. That was it. Obviously, discovering that she could dance without causing property or personal damage had rattled her more than she realized.
That was all it was. Exactly.
Yet, as she took one more sidelong glance at Mr. Rowland, her hand, the one he’d held far too long to be proper, tingled, her fingers reaching out for something . . .
And she couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he held her thusly again?
“Will you come to Lady Gourley’s soiree tomorrow night?” Lavinia asked as Mr. Rowland stopped the carriage at the corner near Lord Charleton’s house.
“But of course,” Mr. Rowland replied, tying off the ribbons and getting out to help her down. When his fingers took hold of hers, Lavinia was transported right back to the moment when they’d begun to dance. “I wouldn’t miss your triumph for the world, Livy.”
“You mustn’t call me that,” she told him, trying to sound as an expert in propriety might.
Yet . . . when he used such easy familiarity, when he took her hand in his to help her down, delicious shivers ran up her arm.
And it was his words, the intimacy with which he spoke. Teasing her. Testing her.
This is what passion feels like. Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it just like dancing?
Lavinia wanted to lean in, as she had when they had come to a stop in the middle of Ponthieux’s dance floor. She wanted to dance again. She wanted to feel his hand curl around waist, holding her just so and . . .
She tugged her hand out of his grasp and took a step back. Not daring to look up at his handsome features, she reminded herself as to why she’d come to London.
Proper Rule No. 2. If a lady desires to contract a proper and respectable match, she will comport herself with nothing less than the strictest manners and unassailable propriety. At all times.
That last bit she’d underlined for good reason. And now she knew why.
Mr. Rowland was everything that was not on her list.
Rakish. Devil-may-care. Flirtatious.
“Until tomorrow, Livy?” he ventured.
“Yes, tomorrow night,” she said, taking another step back from him and ignoring his familiar ways.
“Save a dance for me,” he told me, making an elegant bow, then a cheeky wink as if it were all a grand lark. Then he returned to his carriage with all the same confidence that had been penned into his note.
Which, she realized with some consternation, had worked to lure her earlier.
Well, it wasn’t going to work ever again, she vowed, as he made a jaunty salute once he’d regained his seat, then drove off.
Yet for some reason, she couldn’t find the compulsion to leave the spot where she stood until he was out of sight.
But once the last bit of the carriage turned the corner, she took a deep breath, for she felt a bit out of sorts. Almost empty.
And she couldn’t see why. She could dance. She’d done it. And now, all she had to do was prove to all of London that she wasn’t as cowhanded as everyone presumed. That she was entirely proper and respectable.
With a renewed air of confidence and purpose, Lavinia strode into Lord Charleton’s house.
“R-r-r-eow. Hissss.”
She glanced down to find Hannibal sitting in the middle of the foyer like an aged, battle-scarred sentry.
“Oh, shoo, you dreadful wretch,” Lavinia told him, waving her parasol at him.
Not that such a flimsy piece of female whimsy would arouse anything less than disdain in such a creature as Hannibal. “R—r-r-eow,” he snarled back. And added another hiss for good measure.
Lavinia had the sense that the cat knew exactly where and what she’d been about and wasn’t afraid to tell everyone her secret.
“R-r-r-r—o-eow!”
It was the sort of clamor that should bring half the household down to investigate. Save most of Lord Charleton’s staff held an unholy terror of being in the same room as Louisa’s cat.
Not that Lavinia blamed them.
“Shush, you dreadful patch of mange,” she told him.
Hannibal hardly took any of this as an insult. She would swear the horrible fleabag actually preened.
“Move,” she told him, nudging him with her boot.
The cat took offense at this, swiping at her and letting out another indecent yowl, but to her relief, he seemed to realize that he wasn’t going to win this battle and finally stalked off, with what was left of his tail in the air and a swagger to his steps that reminded her a bit of Mr. Rowland.
She’d probably find a dead rat on her pillow in retribution for her offense, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
“Oh, dear Lavinia—it is you, right?” Lady Aveley called down from the upper landing. She was still learning how to tell the two sisters apart.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Excellent. Louisa told me you went to the lending library.” It was more of an inquiry than a statement, and Lavinia, who had never been overly good at falsehoods shifted uneasily.
“Yes, my lady,” she replied.
Lady Aveley came down the stairs. “You didn’t find anything to your liking?”
I did, came a reply straight out of her heart, and the memory of Mr. Rowland’s lips just inches from her own left her feeling a bit dizzy.
“No,” she said back, a bit more sharply than she intended. “That is, they didn’t have the book I was looking for. I had thought to get the new Miss Darby novel for Louisa.”
“Ahh, how kind of you,” Lady Aveley replied as she got to the first landing. “Well, while you were out, the new gowns you ordered arrived. Louisa is trying hers on right now.”
“Oh, how perfect,” Lavinia declared, hurrying forward. Truly her fortunes were lining up. She’d learned to dance today, and now she had the most elegant gown in the world to wear.
Tomorrow night would be a triumph.
She hurried past her chaperone, but as she passed Lady Aveley, the matron stopped her.
“Lavinia, I know that things are different in the country, but in London, you mustn’t go out without a maid. A lady must always safeguard her virtue and her reputation. You never know what sort of rogue you might encounter out there.”
And from down below, Hannibal had his own opinion on the matter. “R-r-reow.”
Which rather sounded like, I told you so.