“I am, yes.” He tried to keep his voice friendly, though he felt as if he’d just crawled out of his own grave.
“At the supper party the other night, what did you think of our Miss Smith?” she prompted.
“I knew her,” he admitted, “though I could not recall her name. I liked her, though.”
“Her real name is Miss Emma Bartholomew.”
“That’s right.” She was indeed the young woman who’d been counting off gentlemen to speak to the other night. “I remember her now.”
“Miss Bartholomew will be having a dancing lesson today, and I would like you to be her partner. The dancing master, Mr. Brown, will be here soon.”
The idea of spinning in circles made his stomach twist, but Cormac warned himself that this was a chance to know the young lady better. “All right.”
He followed the headmistress up a flight of stairs to a small room that he supposed was meant to be a ballroom.
The young lady stood on the far end of the room. She wore a lovely day dress that was the pale pink of a spring rose. It contrasted against her dark hair, and he complimented her when he greeted her. “You look lovely this morning, Miss—”
“Bartholomew,” she finished. “I know you can’t seem to remember my name.”
“I’ve never been good with names,” he admitted. “I apologize.” Though, to be fair, he was far more focused on settling his stomach and calming the illness when he felt so terrible.
She sighed. “Lord Dunmeath, I know you don’t really want to be here. I can manage alone with the dancing master if need be. Though, to be honest, I don’t know why Mrs. Harding is having me take lessons. The idea of dancing in a ballroom horrifies me.”
“Let us sit and talk for a moment,” he suggested. It was a good excuse because he needed time to gather his strength again. “Did you ever want to learn how to dance?”
“My tutors tried to teach me when I was growing up. But it was too easy to bump into things—and other couples. I gave up. I found it easier to pretend that I didn’t like dancing. Which, I suppose, is true.”
“How do you get around houses?” he asked. “It does seem easy enough for you.”
“I count steps,” she admitted. “And I walk slowly when I can.”
The idea intrigued him, and he couldn’t help but ask, “How many steps is it from here to the doorway?”
“Fourteen,” she answered.
He considered that and asked, “What about from the door to the stairs?”
“Seven steps forward and then twelve to the left.” Then she said, “Lord Dunmeath, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not converse about all the steps. It makes me feel as if I’m being tested. I get around as best I can, and I’d rather not be pitied.”
“Forgive me then,a chara.It’s only my ignorance that’s showing.” He tried to keep his voice lighthearted, hiding the pain that kept rising up. His head was aching again, so he stopped trying to smile. In a way, it was a relief not having to feign an expression he didn’t feel.
Instead, he studied her features, noting that her dark hair was braided and pinned up. Her expression held an invisible shield, as if she didn’t want to answer any questions about her vision. Wallflower or not, no one could deny that she was beautiful.
His curiosity continued, and he asked, “Are you angry that Mrs. Harding wishes you to learn to dance?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve been forced into it,” she admitted. “When I was young, a tutor tried to teach me country dances, but I couldn’t keep up. It was too complicated.”
He could see how that would be a problem with swift dancers and switching partners. “There are other, easier dances you could try.” Not to mention, his stomach was still aching with a vicious, throbbing pain. He didn’t think he could manage the dizzying steps of a quadrille or anything faster. “Perhaps a waltz, I’m thinking.” A slow one, where he didn’t have to move quickly.
“I simply don’t see the point,” she answered. “What purpose is there in dancing?”
He supposed she wouldn’t understand if she’d never indulged. “Perhaps I can show you, if you’re willing.” He didn’t ask permission but took her gloved hand in his. “Stand up and move beside me.”
She did, but her demeanor was stiff and uncertain. When he drew near, he noticed that her scent reminded him of honeysuckle blossoms. He wondered whether it was a fragrance she wore, or whether it was soap from her bath.
He let go of her hand and said, “Place your right hand behind your back.” When she obeyed, he touched his own hand to hers, resting them against her spine. She seemed nervous, as if she’d never held a man’s hand before. “Now you’ll be taking my left hand, and I’ll hold it over here. Like so.” He took her left hand in his and drew it to the side. “After that, we’ll be walking forward together. Right foot first, then left. Imagine we’re taking a stroll.”
Her green eyes seemed troubled, but at least she seemed willing to try. He walked with her slowly, giving her time to get adjusted. But he grew aware of the warmth of her gloved hand against his and the curve of her waist. “Smaller steps,” he urged. “Again, right... then left. Right... then left. We’re just going to be strolling across the room while you get used to it.”
