Page 62 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“I didn’t want to be caught at it, in the house. The gentlemen are carousing in the billiards room. They are too close to the ballroom—and I did wish to practice. At first I hated the very idea of lessons, but I’ve got the bit between my teeth now. I refuse to be defeated. If I can perfect this dance, I might even tackle another.”
She was so endearingly brave and determined—and she was going to need those qualities if she meant to face the outside world. But for now, he reached for a bit of light-heartedness. “Perhaps you should only confess to the one—and then make the gentlemen vie for the honor of your one dance at each ball.”
She laughed. “Oh, wouldn’t Hope love that? It’s a nice idea, but I’ve not had much luck with even the smoothest, most stately dance.” Sighing, she leaned back to look at the stars. “I’ll keep trying, though. It must be perfect, or I’ll never attempt it in public.”
“No one dances perfectly,” he objected.
“I will. Or I won’t dance at all.”
“Is that your pride speaking? Or your legendary stubbornness?”
“Both. And fear, as well. And experience.”
“Experience?”
Shrugging, she didn’t answer.
He thought for a moment. “The speaking piece? You said it didn’t go well.”
“Please, don’t mention it.”
“It couldn’t have been so bad.”
“Why?” Her tone sharpened. “Because you are the only one with pain and regret in your past? I assure you, you are not.”
He shifted. “You are right, of course. I apologize.”
He sank down and sat with his back against the bank, next to her feet. Neither spoke. He should go. He should go on to the village, back to his carefree, libertine ways. But he couldn’t leave her alone out here. Nor did he want to, really.
The breeze lifted his hair and caressed his brow. Slowly, slowly, the tension he’d been carrying all day drained away. His shoulders relaxed. He leaned over a little and rested his head on her knee. She sighed and touched the top of his head, briefly.
How did she do it? She made him feel like she’d created a refuge just for him, where he could say what he thought without guarding every moment, a place of soothing relief, free of the worry and strife that normally dogged his every step.
He wanted to give something back to her.
“Would you like for me to partner you, while you practice?”
“No, thank you. I think I’m done for the evening.”
“Then, would you care to dance with me, later this week? At the ball your sister has planned to end the house party? I swear, it won’t matter a whit to me if you stumble a bit.”
“No, thank you,” she said decisively.
“I can contrive to cover any little misstep. I promise I would never let you tumble or fall.”
“I cannot.” Her voice had thickened. “I’m not ready.”
He tilted his head back to look up at her. A lovely halo of moonlight surrounded her profile and shadowed her expression. “It must have been very bad,” he said gently.
“It was.”
Grasping her hand, he peeled away her glove. He traced her fingers and along the tender skin of her wrist. Her heartbeat fluttered beneath his fingers and he cradled her hand, wishing he could protect her from harm. “Honestly? My first instinct is to tell you to keep the story to yourself. Don’t make yourself vulnerable,” he said softly. “But my friends are always counseling me otherwise. Sometimes when you share a hurt, it loses some of its power over you. Or so they tell me.”
“Have you done so? Tried sharing your pain?”
“Yes.” It had only led him to worse, but he would never let that happen to her, not with him.
She let out a shaky breath. “Keswick, we can remain friends, can we not? Separated, as you’ve said, but still . . . in harmony?”
