Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,80
slightest inhalation, and yet headily erotic for the lack of restraint to it. They remained there, chests touching, bodies pressed close. “I-is this proper?”
He lowered his head and their breaths mingled. “Does it matter if it is?” he whispered against her mouth. “Given last night?”
She slapped a finger against his mouth. “Shh,” she demanded, glancing about the empty room. “Will I be expected to dance this . . . with other gentlemen?”
And just like that, his plans for their dancing lessons came to a screeching, staggering halt under the image she’d ushered in: one of Temperance locked in the arms of some unrepentant rogue, a rake with a hand too low on her back, and on the curve of her hip. Some scoundrel who was all too eager to seduce the Lost Lord’s wife out from under his nose. A gentleman who wasn’t a thief of anything but hearts.
“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “We could begin first with a country dance, the quadrille.”
And damn if the relief in her eyes didn’t grate.
“Now,” he began, focusing on the business at hand. “For country dances, what you should remember is the movements are a skip-change step with a little jump, and end with your feet together.” Humming a tune, Dare demonstrated those steps, slowly, several times, then increased speed so they matched the rhythm of songs played.
Temperance’s mouth moved as if she were talking herself through his directions.
“In formal sets, the feet come together, so one doesn’t blur the edges as one goes straight into the next figure,” he explained.
“You remember . . . so much of this,” she said quietly . . . and he missed his first step.
He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “I expect it’s no different from learning to walk or ride or anything else.” Only . . . there were memories there. Ones he’d not thought of: a woman who was a stranger, and yet not. A woman whom he’d not thought about, or of, because there’d been no need for it. But now, with Temperance’s observation, that ghost forced her way back in.
It is no different from skipping or running, Darius . . . Come, let me show you . . .
A child’s laughter lingered with that of his mother, in these walls still.
“Dare?” A soft hand settled on his arm.
“Fine,” he said abruptly. “I’m fine. The quadrille,” he said, bringing them back to something far safer—their dance lesson. “You step onto your left foot at the same time you throw your right foot forward, like so.” He demonstrated those steps once more, and waited for her to mimic them. Temperance attempted them several times. On the fourth, she was slightly breathless and laughing, with red color in her cheeks . . . and thoroughly entrancing. “It doesn’t have to be that far,” he said too late, and she completed that step, her leg extended too far out, and she nearly came down.
Laughing, she caught herself against him.
And all the air remained trapped in his lungs, and he wanted nothing more than to freeze her as she was now, blithe and without the cares she’d known. Without the struggles and suffering she’d endured.
“What?” she asked, her breath coming in quiet little rasps. She didn’t release her grip upon Dare’s jacket, holding on so naturally to him.
“Nothing,” he said softly. To say it was anything more would shatter the moment. “Careful with your right foot. If you extend it too far forward and to the right, you can fall.”
She pulled away and attempted the steps once more. “Good,” he said. “Now, jump, landing on both of your feet, but bending your knees slightly to prevent injury.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Who would have imagined dance would be so dangerous?”
It wasn’t. Only this woman, and the longing he had for her, represented the greatest peril.
Together, Dare and Temperance went through the steps. Over and over. And then they moved on to the Scotch reel . . . “And at last . . . there is . . . the waltz.” He left that there, allowing Temperance to decide whether she wanted to attempt what had once been a scandalous set.
“Who taught you the waltz?”
“My mother instructed me,” he said before he could call the words back. Why had he shared that?
Temperance’s eyes softened. “Do you remember much about her?”
“Some,” he said gruffly, keeping his eyes focused over the top of her head.