Benedict cocked his head. “Isn’t it your afternoon off? I’m sure I saw Marcus shuffling his feet by the back door.”
“It is, m’lord.”
“Then off you go. Don’t keep the lad waiting.”
Daisy looked to Amelia, a question written across her face.
Amelia waved her hand. “Very well. Benedict can fill in for you.”
The speed at which Daisy disappeared lodged a kernel of unease in Amelia. She stomped on it. “Shewantedto help.” Did she need to protest so loudly? Probably not. But the words were out.
Benedict shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure she realized there was another option,” he said gently. “You can be…inconsiderate.”
The kernel of unease grew.
“Churlish?” Cassandra interjected.
And it sprouted thorns.
“Charmingly self-focused?”
And now it had drawn blood. Amelia stood and tugged the cuff of her sleeve until the muslin was crease-free. “Well, after that rousing assessment of my character, I bid you good day.”
Benedict intercepted her, his hand reaching out and coming to rest against her waist. “I’m sorry. Don’t let me run you off. I interrupted your fun with my unvarnished judgment. Tell me what you were doing.”
Well, fine. If he wasn’t going to let her politely escape, then he could help her with the training, whether he liked it or not.
“We were dancing.”
“Oh.” He took a step back.
“And you’ve arrived at the perfect time to help.”
Hands raised, slight panic on his face, he said, “I don’t know if I can be of help.”
“Your mother taught you how to dance a cotillion, surely?”
He shook his head, another step back bringing him almost to the door he seemed intent on escaping through. “That was alongtime ago.”
She took his hand and dragged him into the center of the room, trying hard not to notice that the touch of his bare skin on hers caused her heart to beat a little harder. “I’m sure it will come back to you.”
“My mother likened me to a bull stuffed into tails trying to walk on two legs,” he blurted out.
Her first instinct was to reply with a quip, but he had folded in on himself—his shoulders caving, his head bowed.
Her husband was a strong, successful, annoyingly self-assured man. What cruelty had his mother inflicted that was now turning him into a frightened child?
“I don’t believe that can be the truth. But show me. Cassandra, clap a beat please.”
He inhaled sharply as Amelia slipped her hand into his, the best sign she had that he felt the same energy between them.
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Step and step. Turn one. Turn two.” As she curtseyed, she looked up at him, fluttering her lashes. “Why Mr. Asterly, I do believe you’re better at this than you think.”
She turned toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder. They moved around the room with just the barest falter. After a handful of turns, his shoulders relaxed, and his face lost the grimace that had been plastered onto it.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “It’s not too awful, is it?”
She stepped closer than propriety truly allowed and whispered, “I like the way you move.”
