“Sorry,” intoned the boy, trying mightily to add an inch or two to his height.
“That’s better,” said Tyler, flashing a wink to Charlotte.
She was dressed in her urchin garb, noted Wrexford, save that she had removed her boots and was wearing satin dancing slippers. It should have looked ridiculously absurd . . .
And yet it didn’t.
As his gaze took in the sight of her willowy body, its curves and long-legged grace accentuated by the snug-fitting boy’s breeches and stockings, he felt his breath catch in his throat.
“Mac, you may start the music again,” called Tyler.
A laugh quivering on her lips, Charlotte followed Hawk’s lead through an awkward turn—
And then froze in midstep as she spotted him.
“M-Milord!” she stammered, her expression pinching in embarrassment.
“I’m learning to be a proper gentleman,” exclaimed Hawk proudly. But as his brother made a very rude sound, he responded with a word that would have singed Satan’s ears.
“It appears we have a bit of polishing to do,” drawled Wrexford.
“M-My apologies for this invasion of your privacy,” continued Charlotte. “I can explain—”
“It was my idea,” said McClellan as she rose from her seat at the pianoforte. “It occurred to me that Lady Charlotte had never learned the waltz, and Tyler and I didn’t wish for her to be put in an awkward position at her first ball.”
“So we decided to give her a lesson and some practice,” added Tyler. “And given her coming entrée into Polite Society, it seemed a good idea to include the Weasels.” He waggled his brows at them. “We wouldn’t want the little beasts to behave like savages when they are introduced to the dowager.”
Raven mimed a hideous face, but the earl saw him dart a concerned look at Charlotte. “Oiy, we’ll try not to disgrace ourselves.”
“I think we’ve practiced our lessons enough for one night. Come, gather your coats, Weasels”—Charlotte still looked ill at ease—“let us leave His Lordship in peace.”
“Not so fast.” Wrexford stepped into the room. “There is an old adage that says ‘practice makes perfect.’”
She made a face. “Since when have you taken to spouting platitudes?”
He laughed. Charlotte somehow always managed to tease him out of a black humor. “It’s a truism, as well as a platitude. And since your first foray into a Mayfair ballroom will be here sooner than you might like, I daresay one more spin across the dance floor can do no harm.”
“But—”
Wrexford silenced her protest by taking her hand. “Relax,” he murmured, feeling a tingling current of warmth melt through his own tension and fatigue. “Just follow my lead.”
* * *
All of a sudden, Charlotte was aware of a pulsing against her palm.Electricity—the word flashed to mind, and for an instant, the thought of Cedric, and his frightening experiments, sent a shiver through her core. But no, she quickly realized, this was a positive force, its heat helping to dispel her doubts and fears.
Looking up, she met Wrexford’s eyes. A warmth was there too, pooled within their smoke-green hue. It softened the austere angles of his face and—
As they passed under the chandelier, Charlotte saw the lines of worry etched around his mouth. She tightened her hand, which strangely enough drew a smile to his lips.
“Have I sprouted purple spots or grown a set of horns?” he inquired.
“Sorry, I was simply thinking . . .”
He spun her through an intricate turn. “About what?”
About how much I like dancing with you.
“About the fact that I’ve actually never attended a ball before,” she answered. “I eloped before I was of age to make my come-out in Society.” A sigh slipped out. “If you must know, I’m worried that I’m going to make a cake of myself.”
