Claudia had never danced it though she had watched the steps performed any number of times and had once or twice—well, perhaps more than twice—waltzed about her private sitting room with an imaginary partner.
Now she was being asked to waltz at atonball?
With the Marquess of Attingsborough?
“I will,” she said. “Thank you.”
She nodded at Charlie, with whom she had been sitting and conversing for the past half hour after dancing with him earlier.
The marquess was holding out a hand for hers, and she set her own in it and got to her feet. She could instantly smell his cologne and was just as instantly engulfed in embarrassment again.
Just last evening…
She squared her shoulders and unconsciously pressed her lips into a tight line as he led her out onto the dance floor.
“I hope I do not make an utter cake of myself,” she said briskly as he turned to face her. “I have never waltzed before.”
“Never?” She looked up into his eyes just as they filled with laughter.
“I know how to perform the steps,” she assured him, feeling heat in her cheeks, “but I have never actually waltzed.”
He said nothing and his expression did not change. She laughed out loud suddenly and he tipped his head slightly to one side and looked at her more closely, though what his thoughts might be she could not fathom.
“You may be sorry you asked me,” she said.
“As you remarked when you agreed to allow me to escort you to London,” he said. “I am still not sorry about that.”
“This is different,” she said as more couples gathered around them. “I shall try not to disgrace you. Gallantry forbids you to back out now, does it not?”
“I suppose,” he said, “I could be overcome by a sudden fit of the vapors or something even more irrefutable, like a heart seizure. But I will not. I confess to a curiosity to see how you acquit yourself during your first waltz.”
She laughed again—and then stopped abruptly as he set one hand behind her waist and took her right hand in the other. She raised her free hand to his shoulder.
Oh, my!
Memories of the night before came flooding in, bringing with them more heat to her cheeks. She determinedly thought of something different.
“I need to talk with you.”
“Do I owe you an apology?”
They spoke simultaneously. She realized what he had said.
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you?”
They spoke together again and then silently smiled at each other.
Any conversation would have to wait. The music was beginning.
There was a minute or so of desperate fright as her mind blanked to the steps she had never danced with a partner. But he was a good leader, she realized when her mind was capable of rational thought again. She knew that he was using the most basic of steps, and by some miracle she was following along without making any ghastly errors. She was also, she realized, counting in her head, though she suspected that her lips might have been moving. She stilled them.
“I do believe,” he said, “you are doomed to oblivion, Miss Martin. You will not make a cake of yourself and no one will notice us.”
He gave her a mournful look, and she smiled back at him.
“And anyone who does will soon expire of boredom,” she said. “We are the least noteworthy couple on the floor.”
