Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,81

remembered may as well have died when Dare left.

“If you would rather not?” he said, eager to bring them back to the lesson.

“No. I will.”

“It is very much accepted now. Hardly as scandalous as it once was when it first appeared here in London.”

“It is scandalous, Lavinia . . .”

“It is merely a waltz, Oscar . . .”

Dare’s vision tunneled as he stared straight ahead down the length of the ballroom, and resurrected from his memory was a waltzing pair: a mother and her son of just seven, twirling wildly around the dance floor, a couple gliding in long, sweeping movements, their laughter filling the room, blending until . . .

“What is the meaning of this, Lavinia?”

“He is just dancing.”

“Everything he does is outrageous. You shouldn’t encourage him more . . .”

That fighting between his parents trailed off in an echo in his mind.

Dare continued staring sightlessly ahead, seeing that image as if the moment played out in real time before him. He’d not allowed himself to think of them . . . for so long. And yet, having been forced back into this household and this way of life meant they were there haunting him at every turn.

“Is it?” Temperance’s voice came as if from a distance.

“Hmm?”

“Very much accepted now?” she repeated.

The present came rushing back in a loud whir. “I . . . Yes. From what I’ve . . . observed.” And this time, a memory intruded of this same ballroom . . . only he had stood on the outside of it, his nose pressed against the cold crystal pane as he stared in at a world he’d no longer belonged to.

Feeling Temperance’s probing stare and not wanting any questions, Dare shoved off those thoughts and launched into instructions for their next set together. “What one must remember is that the waltz follows a basic box step.” Holding his arms in the correct pose, he demonstrated what would be her movements. “Forward left. Slide with the right. And then close, left foot to right foot. Now, switch weight.” Dare faced Temperance and found her features a study of concentration. “Your turn.”

Her arms hanging at her sides, Temperance stepped forward, then right.

“More of a slide,” he murmured. Going on a knee, he took her right leg and gently guided her through the motions.

He froze. His fingers curved reflexively upon her knee, the thin wool of her dress and a chemise all that stood between them. Dare swallowed hard, wanting to resume exactly where they’d left off the night prior.

“Dare?” she asked questioningly, and he abruptly released her.

“Try again,” he said hoarsely, leaping to his feet. “Always remember,” he instructed as Temperance tested those movements several times. “There is an up-and-down quality to the rhythm of the dance.” Although there was a slight bouncing quality to some of those motions, there was even more a natural grace as she mimicked the steps he taught.

“Now back, side, close . . . and you have it.”

“I have it,” she muttered, practicing once more. “I trust when there is an orchestra and a room full of proficient dancers and a partner that it will be altogether different.”

“All of which is easily rectified.” Dare held his arms aloft.

Temperance hesitated, and for a moment, he thought she intended to refuse. But then she stepped into his arms.

How right she felt there. And she’d been correct when she’d said intimacy had never been their problem. Their bodies had always moved in a harmony, be it lovemaking or now . . . dancing.

“There’s no music,” she pointed out, faintly breathless.

Was it from all her earlier exertions? Or the feel of his arms wrapped about her? And why did he so desperately want it to be the latter?

Dare began to quietly sing an up-tempo melody and started them through the steps. Temperance stared down at their feet. She tripped and promptly cursed. Stifling a smile, lest she take it as a sign that he was making light, he tipped her chin up. “Look at me,” he murmured, pausing in his song.

“You can sing.”

“There’re no words.”

“It is still singing. You are carrying a tune, and in flawless modulation.”

“Music instructors,” he confessed, twirling her in a wide, dizzying arc that brought a laugh and, as importantly, an end to her questions.

Temperance stepped on his left foot. “I am terrible at this,” she gritted out between clenched teeth.

“You’ve only just begun, love. Close your eyes.”

“I’m not—”

“Close. Them.”

And then wonder of wonders, Temperance complied.

“Now, no talking. No questions. Nothing. Just feel