Isadora must have sensed him because her head turned toward the doorway with the sudden wariness of prey scenting predator. Their eyes met across the room’s expanse, and Edmund watchedcalculation flicker across her features before being replaced by something he couldn’t decipher.
Resignation? Determination? Some combination that suggested she’d made a decision he wouldn’t like?
“Your Grace,” she said, her tone carrying the careful neutrality she’d adopted since their confrontation. “Join us, if only for a moment.”
The invitation hit him like a fist to the solar plexus. She wanted him to join them? After he’d spent three days avoiding her with transparent desperation? After he’d dismissed their entire relationship as nothing more than practical arrangement?
“I am no dancing master,” he managed, the refusal emerging automatically even as every fiber of his being screamed to accept.
“Precisely.” Isadora’s chin lifted with that challenge he’d come to recognize—the one that made his pulse race despite his best efforts at control. “Which is why your ward will not fear clumsy steps with you. She needs practice with a partner who won’t judge her mistakes. Come.”
The command was delivered lightly but brooked no refusal. Edmund found himself moving forward before conscious decision had been made, drawn by forces he couldn’t name and didn’t dare examine too closely.
His boots were silent on carpet that had been rolled back to expose polished floors. Lillian watched his approach with an expression that mingled hope and uncertainty—as though she couldn’t quite believe he was actually participating rather than criticizing from the sidelines.
When had he become the sort of guardian whose mere presence inspired such wariness in a child he was supposed to protect?
“Uncle Edmund?” Her voice carried the tentative quality of someone expecting rejection. “You don’t have to?—”
“Apparently I do,” he interrupted, surprising them both with the faint humor in his tone. “Your new guardian has issued orders, and I’ve learned that arguing with Her Grace tends to end poorly for everyone involved.”
Isadora’s eyes widened fractionally at this acknowledgment of her authority—the first he’d offered since their wedding. But she said nothing, merely gestured toward the space she’d cleared for their lesson.
“Take her hands,” she instructed, and Edmund’s pulse jumped at her voice washing over him like warm water. “Not too tightly—you’re leading her through a dance, not restraining a prisoner. Yes, like that. Now the steps are simple: forward, side, together. Forward, side, together. The rhythm matches the melody I was humming.”
Edmund positioned himself opposite Lillian with movements that felt absurdly formal. His ward barely reached his shoulder,her hands small and cold in his despite the room’s warmth. She looked up at him with those blue eyes that were pure James—questioning, hopeful, terrified of disappointing him.
The expression made something crack in his chest. How many times had James looked at him like that? Before the duel, before everything went wrong, when they’d been young and stupid and convinced friendship could overcome any obstacle?
“I’ll likely step on your feet,” Lillian warned, pulling him back to the present.
“I’ll survive.” He attempted the sequence Isadora had described, movements stiff with self-consciousness. Forward—his leg tangled with Lillian’s. Side—they nearly collided. Together—she stumbled against him with enough force to require steadying.
This was hopeless. He was hopeless. What had possessed him to think he could do this?
“This is hopeless,” Lillian muttered, echoing his thoughts with devastating accuracy. “I’m completely incompetent at dancing.”
“You’re learning,” Edmund corrected, then caught himself. When had he started offering encouragement rather than criticism? “Again. We’ll master this together.”
The words emerged before he could stop them, carrying implications he wasn’t prepared to examine. Together. Asthough they were a unit rather than guardian and reluctant ward. As though her success mattered to him beyond mere duty.
They attempted another sequence with results marginally less disastrous. Lillian’s giggles suggested she found his awkwardness endearing rather than disappointing, and something in Edmund’s chest loosened at the sound.
She was laughing. His stern, frightened ward was actually laughing while attempting to dance with her notoriously difficult guardian.
When was the last time he’d heard genuine laughter in this house?
“More graceful,” Isadora said from somewhere behind him, and then her hand was on his shoulder.
Edmund froze completely. Every nerve in his body focused on that single point of contact—her palm settling against superfine with pressure so light it barely registered, yet burning through wool and linen to brand his skin.
“You’re holding yourself like you’re preparing for battle rather than guiding a young lady through simple steps.” Her voice was quiet, meant only for him, and the intimacy of it made his pulse stutter. “Relax your shoulders. Lower your elbow slightly. There—that’s better.”
Her fingers trailed down his arm, correcting the angle of his hand where it held Lillian’s. The touch lasted mere seconds but sent heat racing through Edmund’s entire body with alarming intensity. He could smell lavender and something sweeter—perhaps lemon from the biscuits they’d been eating. Could feel the warmth of her presence at his back, close enough that if he turned his head slightly he’d be able to see the curve of her cheek, the soft skin of her throat.
He didn’t turn. He couldn’t trust himself to look at her when his entire being was screaming to forget the lesson, forget propriety, forget every reason he’d convinced himself that wanting her was impossible.
“Try again,” she murmured, stepping away before he could do something catastrophically foolish. “You’re doing remarkably well for someone who claims to be no dancing master.”
