Dance lessons? A new wardrobe? Learning all of these rules? Who had he become and was he ready for it?
Whether or not he was capable, change was coming. He vowed to hold steady, regardless of what was to come his way in the days ahead.
*
The chairs hadbeen pushed to the edges of the drawing room, the rug rolled up, and the polished floor left bare and gleaming in the late afternoon light. Sun streamed in through the tall windows, catching flecks of dust as they floated through the air like dancers themselves.
James stood stiffly in the center of the room, boots planted too wide, hands awkward at his sides. His cravat felt too tight, though he’d tied it the same as always. In a frighteningly short amount of time, he’d be in London ballrooms, holding strangers in his arms, making small talk with women whose names he’d forget by morning.
The thought made his chest tighten.
Across from him, Monsieur Lefevre clapped twice. “Non, non,non! You are not squaring off for battle, Lord Ashford. You are asking a lady to dance. There is finesse, not force. Grace, not… whatever this is.” He gestured broadly at James’s stance.
James exhaled slowly, jaw tight. “This is ridiculous.”
“Mais non,” Lefevre said, stepping lightly across the floor as if carried by invisible strings. “This is courtship in motion. It is poetry of the feet. Think of all the beautiful ladies in London, waiting to be swept across the floor!”
James’s stomach turned. Beautiful ladies. Waiting. Expecting.
At that moment, the door creaked open.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Georgiana’s voice was warm with amusement.
James turned, heat prickling the back of his neck. “Only my humiliation.”
She stepped fully into the room, and the tightness in his chest loosened. How pretty she looked in her simple day dress, with a pink flush to her cheeks.
“Monsieur Lefevre, I presume?” Georgiana asked.
“But of course, madame!” Lefevre bowed with a theatrical sweep. “A pleasure to meet the lady of such grace. Perhaps you have come to rescue your poor Lord Ashford from footwork catastrophe, oui?”
James shot her a look. “I am hopeless.”
“Surely not?” Georgiana smiled kindly at him. “You’re naturally athletic. You will improve in no time at all.”
Lefevre clapped again. “This is divine providence! You will partner him. We cannot waltz alone, n’est-ce pas? And see how his shoulders drop already, just from your presence? Magnifique!”
James felt his face burn. Lefevre wasn’t wrong—he had relaxed the moment she’d entered.
“Are you sure?” James asked.
Georgiana stepped toward him, her hand already extended. “I cannot let you suffer alone.”
Her fingers slid into his. Bare skin against bare skin. Cool and soft where his palm had gone warm. Her thumb settled against his, just the lightest pressure. He had to remind himself to breathe. This was practice. Just practice for London. For dancing with women who weren’t known to him. Who would judge him for every misstep.
“Très bien!” Lefevre called. “We begin with the quadrille. A dance of approach and retreat, perfect for the London ballrooms where you will charm so many ladies, Lord Ashford.”
James’s hand tightened involuntarily around Georgiana’s. She glanced up at him, something unreadable in her eyes.
Lefevre snapped his fingers impatiently. “Lord Ashford, you just take her hand gently. Not like you are claiming property.”
Georgiana’s smile curved. “Lord Ashford would never be so presumptuous.”
The music began, Lefevre humming and tapping his foot in rhythm. The quadrille required them to step apart, to circle, to return. Every separation felt like loss. Every return felt like coming home.
James focused on her. The way her skirts brushed his legs when they passed, how her fingers found his without hesitation each time the dance demanded it, how she guided him with the smallest pressure when he faltered. Her hair smelled sweet. Her hand grew warm in his.
The next movement should have taken them apart again, but somehow they’d drifted closer. Close enough that he could see the delicate curve of her eyelashes, feel her breath against his chin.
