Page 34 of How to Seduce a Duke this Autumn
“I see,” she murmured, though her pulse betrayed her calm.
He shifted closer, the hem of her gown brushing against the polished leather of his boots. “Watch me,” he said. His voice was low, his words crisp, as if they were discussing something far more mundane. Yet his nearness turned the moment electric.
Adam stepped back and tapped the damp ground lightly with his foot, a deft, sharp rhythm that struck her as unexpectedly graceful. His movements were quick, deliberate, and somehow impossibly smooth. The shift of his narrow hips as he angled toward her caught her attention, the movement fluid anddeliberate, as if every step had been rehearsed a thousand times. His broad shoulders spread like a promise as he lifted his arms to guide hers, filling the space between them with a quiet power that made the air feel impossibly thin. She could sense his warmth even through the layers of fabric separating them, an unspoken pull that left her rooted to the floor. His strength was undeniable—not just in the firm press of his hands, but in the steady calm that seemed to radiate from him, anchoring her against emotions she couldn’t yet name.
“This”—tap, pause, sweep of his foot, retreating again to a poised stillness—“is how the bolero begins. It’s not merely about rhythm. It’s about control, about anticipation.” His dark eyes lifted to meet hers, and Charlene forgot what breathing felt like. “Think you can do it?” he asked, his tone teasing.
“I… suppose.” She hesitated, then mirrored his movement, her slipper brushing softly against the ground. Her first attempt was clumsy, her foot skittering awkwardly.
“That was terrible.”
Charlene startled, glaring at him. “You could at least pretend I’m not hopeless,” she shot back, but the humor tugging at his lips suggested he was enjoying this immensely.
And just like that, they were like childhood friends again. Just like a lifetime before last year.
And yet different.
“Hardly hopeless,” he replied. “I’ve always had hope for you.” His voice gentled as he leaned slightly closer. “Try again. Slower this time.”
Charlene straightened her spine and focused. Tap, pause, sweep. Her heart thudded with an odd mix of determination and self-consciousness.
“Better,” Adam murmured, his tone low and approving. Suddenly, his hands were on her waist, firm and unyielding. She froze.
“Relax. Just trust me,” he murmured, his fingers spreading slightly, his steady grip both grounding and—for reasons Charlene could not articulate—wildly unsettling. He pulled her gently forward, aligning her movements with his. “The steps should… flow,” he said, his words washing over her like a current, enticing her to follow.
Their feet moved in tandem now, her slipper alternating with the sharp tap of his boot. The sweep of his coat brushed against the fabric of her skirts, and she could feel the faintest pull of them together, like the rhythm demanded it. The tension between the precise staccato of the movements and the softness of his voice sent a quiver up her spine.
“You see?” Adam said after a beat, his hands still anchoring her. “Not so hopeless.”
Charlene shot him a look, but there was no sharp reply ready, only her pulse quickening at the satisfaction in his tone. He stepped away—not far, just enough for her to feel the absence of him as glaringly as his presence.
“Now, the arms,” he said. One of his hands left her waist to take hers, his fingers curling delicately around hers in a way that sent a flicker of heat to her cheeks. He lifted her hand, guiding it in an arc, and her breath hitched as her arm obeyed his gentle pressure. His movements were impossibly smooth, but hers wavered, her instincts caught between the rhythm of the dance and the silent tension filling the air between them.
“You’ve done this before,” she said quietly, half teasing but wholly curious.
“I’ve been known to pick things up now and again,” Adam replied without breaking their measured steps. “Though I’ll admit… this is my first attempt with someone quite this unsteady.”
That’s why I need a steady fern.
Charlene felt the sting of his words, though the glint in his expression softened it into something bearable. The corner of his mouth quirked, the faintest suggestion of a smile that left her breathless despite herself.
She lifted her chin and quickened her steps, surprising even herself when her foot struck the ground in perfect cadence with his. His brows rose in response, only for his lips to part in a quiet laugh.
“There it is,” he murmured. “Better than I expected, Charlene.”
Her name on his lips anchored them both in the moment, a tether neither of them acknowledged outright. For a brief second, they seemed to forget the nature of their arrangement, the lives that waited just beyond these walls. But the bolero demanded their attention, a discipline of rhythm, touch, and unspoken trust. For now, at least, they gave in.
Charlene’s breath came out in pale, fleeting wisps. Her pelisse, buttoned snugly to block the morning chill, weighed lightly against her shoulders, the hem swaying with each tentative step. Adam, his tailored coat wrapped close to his form, cast an impressive figure against the mist, his dark silhouette cutting cleanly through the hazy light.
“Trust the rhythm,” he said, his voice low and steady, breaking the quiet like a warm current.
There was no music! Did he mean trust him?
His gloved hand closed around hers, a light, guiding pressure that belied the firm strength beneath the leather. With his other hand, he held her waist, just above the cinched fabric of her pelisse, a touch that seemed both careful and possessive.
Charlene moved with him, her slippers brushing against the moist path as they turned in synchronized steps. The fog swirled faintly around them, cloaking them in a cocoon of muted light. She swayed instinctively under his hold, her movements slowlymeeting the rhythm he set, the stitches of her nerves beginning to loosen.
“Good,” Adam murmured, his words intimate in the quiet. His breath scattered faintly against her temple, close now, closer than she’d realized.
