The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,62
blasted thing. Thank you for reminding me.”
“Er…” Lawrence sent Chloe a helpless glance.
She gave another little shrug in response. Tommy was a fine musician. Great-Aunt Wynchester, on the other hand…well, that old bird was unpredictable.
Lawrence made a considering expression. “If you’re willing to try something that smells a bit…off, my butler swears there is no better remedy for arthritis than the poultice my housekeeper makes.”
Tommy lurched to her feet.
“I’ll beg her for a dollop at once.” She clumped from the parlor without waiting for permission.
“How could she possibly find Mrs. Root?” Lawrence gave his head a disbelieving shake. “My staff is convinced your aunt can barely find her way down a straight corridor. Shall I send someone to assist her? Perhaps Hastings—”
“Leave your butler at his post,” Chloe interrupted smoothly, before the duke could drum up a chaperone for her chaperone. “Great-Aunt Wynchester may be old, but she’s more capable than people think. She likes to do things for herself. Besides, every chamber has a bellpull. If she needs help, she knows what to do.”
He inclined his head. “In that case, we shall leave her to her own devices, and us to ours. Are you ready for dancing lessons?”
Chloe was not.
Her chest clenched with the longing to waltz with him at a real ball. Her mind knew all of this was make-believe, but her speeding pulse and shaky breath indicated the rest of her body believed the fiction all too real.
Every new stolen moment in his arms would only make their inevitable separation all the more heartbreaking.
“I’m ready.” She curled her fingers about his arm as if they were no different than any couple about to dance. “Lead the way.”
The way, it turned out, led to a large, airy chamber, its floor bare save for a pianoforte in one corner and a smattering of plush chairs along the wall opposite.
“Is this where you host your end-of-season fête?”
“It is indeed.” His eyes were cloudy, as if the thought filled him with as much pain as pleasure. Then he smiled, and it was as though the sun bloomed overhead rather than an unlit chandelier. She could look nowhere but at him.
He lifted her palm in his and curved his other hand above her midsection. It was not quite the embrace she craved but more than enough to weaken her knees. She would not have to feign awkwardness after all.
His voice was gruff. “Until the gala, I’m afraid we must pretend to hear the orchestra playing.”
She did not have to pretend. Her heart beat loud enough to keep time for both of them. Gently, carefully, she placed her free hand atop his shoulder.
“I’ll go slowly,” he said. “One-two-three, one-two-three. Just try to relax into my lead.”
She was anything but relaxed. She hoped he forgave her when she trod inelegantly on his feet. Every limb felt overwarm and clumsy.
Rather, that was what she thought until Lawrence began to move. He waltzed like a dream come true, the blackguard. Of course he would. It was impossible not to glide about the empty ballroom in perfect harmony, with or without music to accompany him. Her body was his to command.
Their feet found their own melody. His eyes did not leave hers. Their bodies moved flawlessly together, as if all previous dances had been practice for this moment, here, with him. She wondered if it would be like this every time, or if it would become even better.
This was the only waltz they would ever share, she realized bleakly. The memory would have to sustain her. It wasn’t enough. She wished she had something tangible, like her broken locket or the warm red mittens. Her gaze lit upon the perfectly pressed handkerchief in his pocket. Before she could stop herself, it vanished from his chest and disappeared into a hidden fold of her gown during their next sweeping turn.
“I’ve been hoping you would stop by,” he murmured. His hand at her back was all that was proper, but his thumb stroked her body. The small caress burned through her gown and shift and imprinted itself on her skin. “Poor Hastings spends every moment of his day peering out of the window in the hopes of spotting the Wynchester coach.”
Ah, it was possible to miss her step and tumble against his chest.
He caught her, and then they were dancing again.
“W-what?” she stuttered. Hoping she would stop by was not at all the same as paying a sentinel to stand watch, just in case.