Part 11 (1/2)

She dismissed school early rather than herd everyone back to the schoolroom for a mere half hour. She thanked Ursula for playing the pianoforte and went back to the schoolroom to tidy up. Joel followed her there.

”Is this not the final day of your two-week trial?” he asked.

”It is.” She half grimaced. ”Miss Ford told me during luncheon that if I wish to stay for the next twenty years or so she will put no obstacle in my way. Is it because no one else has applied for the position, do you suppose?”

”What I suppose,” he said, ”is that it is because you are an excellent teacher and the children love you.”

”I cannot imagine why,” she said, straightening the books in the bookcase. ”I seem to have brought nothing but chaos to the schoolroom. And I have no idea what I am doing.”

He grinned at her. ”Have you heard of the waltz?” he asked.

”The waltz?” She frowned. ”Of course.”

”Have you danced it?” he asked.

”Of course.”

”It is said to be both risque and hopelessly romantic,” he said. ”Which is it, in your estimation? Or is it both?”

She had never considered it particularly romantic. But then, she had never found anything romantic. Romance was not for the likes of people like Lady Camille Westcott. She had never found it risque either. If it was danced properly, with the emphasis upon grace and elegance, then it was a perfectly unexceptionable dance. Her partners had always been chosen with great care, of course. She had waltzed a number of times with Viscount Uxbury, and no one was more proper than he-until, that was, he had begun calling her a doxy. Was that what he had called her, she wondered, when Avery and Alexander had chucked him out of the ball in London?

”Or is it neither?” Joel asked when she did not immediately reply.

”I believe,” she said, ”it could be the most romantic dance ever conceived.”

”Could?” he said. ”But it never has been in your experience?”

”I did not look for romance on the ballroom floor,” she told him.

”Or anywhere else?” He was leaning back against the teacher's desk, his arms crossed. He was almost always relaxed and leaning, arms crossed. Was that part of his appeal-his total lack of formality and studied elegance?

”Or anywhere else,” she said severely. ”You have never seen the waltz performed?”

”I had never even heard of it until recently,” he said. ”Teach me.”

What?

”Here?” she said. ”Now? But there is no music and there are desks everywhere. Besides . . .”

”The desks are easily disposed of,” he said, and to Camille's dismay he started to push them aside to create something of a s.p.a.ce in the center of the room. ”The music should be easy to provide. You have a voice, do you not?”

”I do,” she said. ”But no one, having once heard it, has ever pressed me to favor any gathering with a solo.”

”A fair warning,” he said. ”But there is no gathering of people here. You must know a tune that would fit the waltz.”

”Must I?” He was not going to let this go, was he?

He strode to her side, took the book she was holding from her hands, replaced it any-old-where on a shelf, and held out a hand for hers. ”Madam,” he said, ”will you do me the great honor of waltzing with me?” And he made her a tolerably elegant leg, scuffed boots and all-boots for waltzing?-and bowed with a flourish.

”You sound like something out of the last century,” she told him. ”I expect to see lace and frills and a powdered wig and buckled shoes.” But she set her hand in his, and with the greatest reluctance allowed herself to be led onto the cleared s.p.a.ce.

”All that remains,” he said, flas.h.i.+ng his grin at her again, ”is for you to teach me how to do it.”

”It is relatively easy,” she said doubtfully, ”but first you have to know how to . . . hold me.” She took his right hand and set it against the back of her waist before placing her left hand on his shoulder. She set her other hand within his and raised them to shoulder height. ”There must always be s.p.a.ce between us, not too much or we cannot move together with any symmetry, but not so little that we touch anywhere but where we are already touching.” She moved half a step closer to him, arching her spine slightly so that she could look up at him.

Good heavens, why had she not simply said a firm no? She suddenly remembered his telling her yesterday afternoon that he would never abandon a woman he had impregnated-or their child. She did not believe she had ever heard that word spoken aloud before-impregnated. She had been shocked right down to her toes, and she was shocked again now. She glared at him as though the words had only just come out of his mouth.

”I like this dance,” he said.

She pressed her lips together. This was not going to work. ”And then there are the steps,” she said severely. And there were all the variations on the steps that made the dance exhilarating and graceful and could, she supposed, make it hopelessly romantic if one were romantically inclined.

”One-two-three, one-two-three,” she counted, and they moved off together as though they did not have a single leg between the two of them that was not made of wood.

”This is as exciting as waiting for oil paint to dry,” he said.

”One normally dances the steps on one's toes and at a faster pace and with rhythm and grace and elegance,” she told him, ”and to music. And one does not always take three steps to one side and three back again. One moves about the floor, and sometimes one twirls about as well.”

”The secret being, I suppose,” he said, ”never to get so dizzy that one topples over and never to tread upon one's partners toes, especially if one is the man.”

”The man leads,” she said, ”and the woman follows.”

”It all sounds easy enough,” he said, spreading his hand more firmly against the back of her waist. ”Provide the music, madam, and I shall endeavor to lead you into the grand romance of the waltz.”

It was awkward; it was clumsy; it was impossible. Where he led, without any signal to provide her with a clue, she could not always follow. They seemed to possess more than the requisite number of feet, and the extra ones were very large. They danced apart until their arms were almost not long enough. They danced close enough to bang together, chest against bosom, before bouncing hastily apart. Camille la-la-la-ed until she was breathless, protested that he was quickening the pace instead of keeping to the steady beat she had set, and la-la-la-ed again. He laughed.

And then suddenly they got it. They were dancing as a couple. They had the steps and the rhythm. They were waltzing. And smiling into each other's eyes with a certain delighted triumph. But Camille was running out of breath again, and she lost it altogether when he twirled her into a sweeping spin. She shrieked, though they completed the spin successfully, all feet and toes accounted for and unstepped upon and unsquashed. She laughed up at him with sheer exhilaration, and he laughed back.

And then, suddenly, they were not laughing any longer.

She was not singing either.

Nor were they dancing.

Nor was the requisite s.p.a.ce between them.

They were bosom to chest, his hand spread against her back, her hand half on his shoulder, half behind his neck, fingertips touching bare flesh, their other hands clasped against his heart. They were gazing into each other's eyes, mere inches apart, both slightly breathless, both with fast-beating hearts, both . . .

And that was the precise moment at which the schoolroom door opened abruptly to admit Miss Ford, closely followed by Cousin Elizabeth-Lady Overfield, Alexander's sister-and Anastasia, d.u.c.h.ess of Netherby.

Thirteen.

There was a moment when all five persons paused, startled. Then- ”I have been teaching Mr. Cunningham the steps of the waltz.”

”Miss Westcott has been teaching me to waltz.”