The Way to a Gentleman's Heart - Theresa Romain Page 0,12

him about the leg in a tight embrace. Thus pinned—though not unhappily—he struggled to keep his balance. “You’ve made your point,” he said. “You’re strong and clever. Now let go. I look like a ballerina.”

Over the line of his leg, her frank eyes met his. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. A second later, a kick to his standing foot knocked that leg out from under him, sending him to the mat flat on his face.

Only then did she let go of his leg. As he groaned, stunned, she crouched next to him. “All right?”

“You’re a terrible human being.”

“I did apologize,” she pointed out. “But wasn’t it clever? You could use the same tricks if anyone ever attacks you.”

“No one would ever attack me in Lincolnshire. And the only person who attacks me in London is you.” Settling his hands under himself, he pushed up into a plank, then slid his feet beneath him and stood.

Miss Carpenter stopped beside them then. “Another good f-fall, Mr. Grahame.” She looked to Marianne. “A-are you comfortable trying the throat grab?”

“Throat grab?” Jack’s brows shot up. “No. I’m not comfortable trying the throat grab. No one grabs my throat.”

“It works the other way. With you grabbing me.” Marianne’s cheeks went pink. “Jack, take hold of me as if you want to throttle me.”

With a knowing smile—just what did she think she knew?—Miss Carpenter moved off to work with another pair. And Jack faced Marianne, less than an arm’s length away.

He stepped closer. “You said ‘as if I want to throttle you.’ Taking it for granted that I don’t, after what you’ve put me through?”

“You said you wanted to see what sort of academy this is.” Her eyes were fathomless, lovely. “And I’ve hurt you only today, and only your pride.”

Which meant, he supposed, that he had hurt her far more over the years. It must have seemed to her, gone from Lincolnshire and knowing his life only through vague rumor, that he’d got everything he wanted and moved along from her.

Secondhand news never got the details right. Sometimes he hadn’t known what to make of his own life, and he was the one steeped in it.

He stepped forward and set one hand to each side of her neck, cradling it in a gentle collar. Her skin was smooth and warm; he stroked it with the pad of his thumb, up and down, until her head tipped to one side to allow him greater range of motion.

“I’m throttling you,” he said quietly. “What do I do now?”

She blinked slowly. “Ah...now I take hold of you.” She grabbed his arms above the elbows and pulled him tightly against her body.

“Dear me,” Jack said thickly. “Which of us is attacking which?”

“Now...now we lie on the floor.” She was still blushing.

“You mean I get you on your back.” He knew he was smirking.

“I mean I pull you to the floor.” She leaned backward, taking them down in a swift tangle of limbs.

For once, it didn’t hurt to fall—or maybe the aches merely faded in the face of arousal. His hands were still on her neck, and he slid them to her collarbone, to the lovely sliver of uncovered skin above the bodice of her dress. She clutched him about the arms, preventing him from freeing himself—as if he’d be fool enough to want to when he lay over her like a lover in bed. Just a fraction, he dipped his head, and when her lids fluttered shut and lips parted, he decided fighting was his new favorite subject.

Another inch, and he’d claim her mouth, and then he would—

“No, n-no. That’s not it at all, Mr. Grahame. Mrs. Redfern. James, come here.”

Jack’s head snapped up. Marianne’s eyes snapped open. With what probably seemed like suspicious speed, they untangled themselves and scooted away from each other on the mat.

Miss Carpenter was the one who had spoken. Reluctantly, one of the footmen shuffled away from his pliant, smiling partner and toward the instructor.

Once Jack and Marianne moved aside, this pair took up places on the mat. What followed was the throat grab and arm grasp, a sudden yank back, and some sort of collapsing somersault on the part of the teacher, and the unfortunate flip of James, heels over head, to land on his back.

The young teacher bounced to her feet, then extended a hand to her partner and heaved him upright. “See the difference? Y-you need to fold at the w-waist, Mrs. Redfern, and place a foot at his m-middle.