“Dance? You?”
“Like a Highland jig?”
She laughed. “No, like a minuet or a waltz.”
Tavish stared, trying to suss out the purpose of her question. “Of course I waltz. I also carry calling cards, can recite the order of precedence from the king down to Lord Byron, and have excellent table manners. Despite my poverty and your brother’s ill opinion, I am an earl’s son.”
“So you acquit yourself well in a ballroom?”
“I haven’t received any complaints from ladies with abused toes. I believe an elderly widow once complimented my finely-turned calf.”
Isla leaned down and—shamelessly, he had to add—surveyed said calves. She tapped her far-too-kissable lips as she studied them, his locket swinging with the rhythm.
“I would agree with her assessment.”
Heat washed the back of Tavish’s neck. He adored this bold version of Isla far too much for his sanity.
“We’ve never danced together, yourself and I.” She lifted an eyebrow. An unmistakable challenge. Similar to the ones he remembered presenting to her.
“Nae.”
“I believe a demonstration would not go amiss.”
“Of my dancing ability?”
“Yes. Once the glove of challenge has been laid, a gentleman should pick it up.”
A beat of silence.
“A waltz, did ye say?” he asked.
She nodded, teeth biting into her plump lower lip.
Tavish took in a slow, steadying breath. He had scarcely touched her in days, terrified that if he did, he simply wouldn’t stop. And yet . . . he could deny her nothing.
Stepping in close, he snaked his right arm around her waist. A quick breath expanded her lungs. She mimicked his stance, her right palm pressing into the small of his back. Grasping her left hand in his, Tavish lifted their joined hands above their heads.
“Scandalous,” Isla murmured. “You favor Mr. Wilson’s waltz.” She named the popular dancing master who had brought the waltz to London from Paris.
“’Tis all the rage on the Continent, lass.”
The dancewasscandalous. Their position forced them to stare into one another’s eyes, bodies so close, scarcely more than two inches separated them.
Slowly, they began to turn in a slow three-four rhythm—down-up-up, down-up-up. The soft scent of lavender wafted off her skin.
She clicked her tongue. “Such shocking behavior, Captain Balfour. People will think me wanton.”
Humor flashed in her tone, but he felt the tremors in her limbs as they twirled around the room in a languid circle.
That was the precise moment Tavish realized the danger of this moment. Because she filled his vision, the blaze of sunset through thewindow turning her skin to pearls. So close, he could count the freckles scattered across her cheekbones and feel the puff of her breath against his chin.
With each sweep of her skirts, the space between them closed—two inches became one . . . and then became no space at all. Her softness pressed against him, sending his pulse soaring.
Isla swallowed. He watched the roll of her throat with rapt fascination.
“You are indeed an excellent dancer,” she whispered.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
