Page 33 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
TOO RESTLESS AFTERthe evening’s excursion to retire to his bedchamber, Lando found himself wandering his own ballroom. In his mother’s day, it had been a den of activity, one of the most utilised parts of the house. Now it sat bare, her beloved pianoforte and sticks of furniture hidden away under dust sheets. The view from the floor-length windows overlooking verdant Grosvenor Square, however, remained as good as it always was. Though he could barely see the outlines of the linden trees lining the leafy avenue through it, Lando took up a post at the window for a while.
Even in London, heavy silence ruled the dark hours of early dawn. In Lando’s experience, it was a time best avoided. The melancholy that had settled around his shoulders during dinner still accompanied him, and his mind drifted to brood on those he’d lost—his parents, whom he’d loved, his wife of whom he’d been dearly fond, and Charles, whom he’d adored. At moments such as this, his loneliness knew no bounds, much like the rich velvet sky reflecting off the windowpane.
The nature of the silence changed when Kit joined him. He knew it was Kit; his presence thickened the air, enriching it in a way Lando had only ever known with one other person.
“You dance well,” Lando remarked, not turning around. “Though you declined the waltz. At least three unmarried ladies swooned with disappointment.”
“Alas, I do not know the steps well enough. Its fame hadn’t reached Kent by the time I left.”
“Oh, it’s a dreadfully simple little thing.” Lando contrived to sound bored. “But scandalous, according to the mamas, thus it has naturally become a firm favourite amongst their daughters.”
Kit stepped farther into the room, his hard soles beating a steady rhythm against the polished wood. “Simple, yet you did not dare attempt it either. Or any of the others.”
The heat of Kit’s gaze caressed the nape of his neck.
“I avoid dancing through choice, not aptitude,” Lando replied. “I have not danced since…” He swallowed away the words. “How long is of no consequence. I assure you my waltz is more than adequate.”
Kit was so close, Lando heard his inhale, the soft rustle of his waistcoat, the creak of boot leather. “You don’t dance, and yet you have this beautiful ballroom going to waste.”
Lando continued to stare into the night. His other ballroom at Rossingley was more beautiful still. How was it possible he could have so much and yet so little? “Yes.”
Quiet fell upon them once more, so much so that Lando could hear the thrum of his own heartbeat. Minutes passed, maybe five or so, before Kit spoke again.
“I learned how to cheat at cards—piquet, loo, and brag mostly—from Sir Brandon Gower. Kentish winter evenings are long and dark; our neighbours were five miles away or more. We used to play for brass buttons. He himself learned during his time fighting in the hussars. He was a good, kind man.”
“And picking pockets? Did Sir Brandon teach you how to do that?”
“No.” Another few beats passed. “I learned that from my mother. She was half-Hungarian, descended from the Rom, though we learned never to speak of it. My father came upon her whilst fighting in Spain and brought her back to England. He married far beneath himself, but theirs was a love match and the reason we lived a quiet life in Kent. Picking one another’s pockets became an amusing game. Anne is adept, too, though she has never used it to her advantage. Your own sister’s belongings are quite safe.”
“You have your mother’s skin colour,” Lando surmised. The man’s honeyed tones and sulky hazel eyes had intruded on his thoughts on more than one occasion during the evening at Lady Chalfont’s.
“Yes. Anne is fairer. She takes after our father.”
More empty beats echoed through the ballroom as if even the silence listened and waited.
“Waltz with me, Lando.” Kit’s low murmur folded around Lando like a warm summer breeze. Or like the arms of his lost love tugging him close, whispering his name as if it were a secret shared between only the two of them. “Here. Now. Show me how.”
Lando’s eyes filled, and he made a sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “We don’t have music.”
“It matters not. Waltz with me.” A command this time, not a question as Kit’s breath gusted against Lando’s skin, hot and damp.
If Lando turned, he’d find a willing mouth, willing arms, a willing body. And their dance would be so much more than a dreadfully simple little waltz because the body belonged to the only man who’d penetrated his frozen heart since Charles’s death.
“Teach me,” Kit repeated. “Dance with me. Like you used to with my uncle. In your even bigger ballroom at Rossingley.”
Lando’s cheeks were wet. “How do you know about that?”
“He spoke of it often, towards the end. Of how beautifully you dance. And of the pleasure you gained from it.”
“It was foolish.Wewere foolish.” Lando brushed a rough palm over his tears. “We thought what we had between us was…” He shook his head, defeated by the future he and Charles had once dreamed together. “Dalliances with men should only ever be a brief exchange of pleasure, nothing more. I know now.”
“You do not truly believe that.”
Kit’s hand lightly touched Lando’s shoulder, hovering as though he half expected it be shaken off. When Lando didn’t move, it slid down his arm to settle at his trim waist. “One puts a hand here, does one not, for a waltz?”
“Yes.” Lando huffed a weak laugh. “Lewd, isn’t it?”
The space between them shrank until there was none, until Kit’s torso pressed up against Lando’s back, and the sturdy branches of his arms wrapped fully around him. “You and my uncle were blessed, Lando. Not foolish.”
