“I have not,” he replied.
She nodded brusquely, ignoring the surge of relief that filled her. “Very well then.” Placing her lantern a distance from his, she stepped between the two glowing lights and beckoned to him. He came, though with obvious reluctance.
“The quadrille is made up of four couples in a rectangular formation,” she said, determined to keep this as businesslike as possible. “Your partner will stand to your right. We’ll practice the part of the first couple.”
He frowned down at her. “First couple?”
“Yes, the top couple.”
“You’re speaking gibberish, Miss Hartley.”
She let out a sigh. “Your mother taught you Shakespeare. Did she never teach you dance steps?”
For the first time in the exchange, his stern expression faltered. “She didtryto teach me. But I wasn’t what you would call an exuberant pupil. Or even a willing one, to be honest.” He cleared his throat. “I ran whenever she attempted that bit of my teaching.”
Lenora felt the first stirrings of humor. “You ran?”
“Yes. Fairly bolted out the door, didn’t return until well past nightfall. She finally gave up trying altogether.”
“You didn’t run fromRomeo and Juliet, though.”
“Yes, well, that’s reading. And I quite like reading.” When she continued to stare at him, he rolled his eyes heavenward. “It’s one thing to immerse yourself in a book. It’s quite another to be forced to hold your mother by the waist and twirl her around.”
She couldn’t help the smile that broke free, loosening something inside her, making her remember just why she had enjoyed spending time with him before the Elven Pools. Her mood vastly improved, she continued, “The top couple, or first couple, is the couple who begins the dance. The others follow. In this set, the couple across is the second couple. The one to your right is the third, and the one to the left is the fourth.”
He nodded, his eyes traveling around the floor as if trying to see the imaginary couples in his mind’s eye.
“First, face the inside of the square.”
He took his place, staring forward, for all the world like a man facing a firing squad.
“Turn to me and bow.” He did so while she curtsied. “Now bow to the lady on your left.”
He turned and bowed to the imaginary woman, all the while mumbling, “This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever done.”
“Then you’re lucky I’m the only one here to witness it. For I assure you, I’ve had my share of embarrassments, and this in no way comes even close to them.”
He looked at her, curiosity visible even in the dim light. He would welcome her confidence, just as he had before. Yet she couldn’t. It was too fresh, that horrible sense of failure, the latest betrayal and her father’s recriminations—and threats—hanging over her head.
Straightening her shoulders, she said, “Now we advance toward the second couple, then retire back to our positions.”
He followed her instructions, moving at her side, his steps heavy and uneven.
“Do try to keep your steps light, and in time with the music.”
“There is no music,” he gritted.
“Ah, yes. Well, I can remedy that. Let’s try it again, shall we?” She began to hum as they moved forward. His brow furrowed in concentration as he attempted to match his steps to hers, his head bobbing in time as they moved back.
And there he went, being adorable again. Did the man even realize he was doing it? But she couldn’t let him distract her. “Now,” she said, “you take my hand and we circle around the second couple.”
He stilled, looking down at her hand extended in the air. “I take your hand?”
It was then she realized his lack of gloves. As well as her own. She thought of him taking her hand in his; of those large, strong, work-roughened fingers embracing her own, with nothing between them.
She swallowed hard. But she could not very well teach him to dance without their hands coming into contact. She simply had to deal with whatever sensations might bombard her.
“Yes,” she said, a touch more hoarsely than before, “you must take my hand.”
