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Haydn would not qualify it as enjoyable, but neither did he despise it, as her father seemed to. She looked so hopeful for his answer, it didn’t seem to matter that they’d have little occasion to dance together as they would reside many miles apart. But this moment, they were in the same chamber. So he stood and, despite his good judgment, reached out his hand.

“But. . . there are no musicians.”

“Neither are they required to dance.”

She hesitated. And then stood, taking his hand. The moment she did, Haydn knew for certain he’d just made a terrible decision. But it was too late now. Instead, he encircled her waist with his free hand, and still holding the other, he began to move.

“You dance so well.”

“You seem surprised.” He avoided looking at her, instead spinning Phillipa again.

“When I asked if you enjoyed it, you seemed hesitant.”

As Phillipa and Haydn moved, the crackle of the fire was their song. “My mother ensured we were all proficient at it, whether we enjoyed it or nay.”

“I could not imagine such a thing.”

He spun them as wide as he was able, navigating the chairs on which they’d just been sitting. “Being forced to dance?”

“Having a mother.”

She said it as if they still spoke about the wine or something similarly mundane. As if it were nothing more than a fact rather than a devastating truth. Haydn slowed, despite himself. “Phillipa. . .”

“That is to say, having her still. When she was alive, our lives were different. She was a buffer, of sorts, between. . .” She stopped, maybe noticing they’d stopped too.

“Between you and your father?”

Phillipa nodded. “I miss her so much sometimes ’tis difficult to breathe if I think long enough or allow the memories to flood my mind.”

He’d thought her eyes were brown. But this close, he could see that was only partially true. His wife’s brown eyes were clear, guileless.

“Have you ever been kissed before, Phillipa?”

Haydn guessed her heart raced as quickly as his own. “Aye.”

“Good.” He lowered his head, cursing himself the whole time. Consummating their vows and wooing his wife were two very different things. He needed to do the former, not the latter. Despite it, Haydn watched as she raised her chin and closed her eyes as if preparing to taste something sour. He’d have laughed if his body hadn’t already begun preparing for what was to come. If he had not spent the past three nights lying awake for too long, imagining how her lips would feel. How they would taste.

He was about to find out.

Chapter Fifteen

His wife’s eyes were closed, her shoulders, tense. This was not the way. “I’ve been in battle with men less fearful of the onslaught they were about to endure.” He said to her as Phillipa’s eyes flew open. “You said you’ve been kissed before?”

“I have.”

“Tell me.”

“You must be jesting.”

“I assure you, Phillipa. I am not.” His hand dropped to the side, and they were no longer in dancing position. In fact, there was more space between them now than ever.

“I. . .” She hesitated. “I have been kissed at court. More than once.”

Haydn tried hard not to smile. “Did you enjoy it?”

She shrugged. “Once I hardly felt it at all.”

“Then that was not a kiss.”