were nearly matched in height, but Joanna had been forced to stay up late to take in the chest. The lack of sleep, combined with Lady Huntford having instructed Joanna to try and manoeuvre Frances to Major Preston, added to her disquiet. The young lady was as co-operative as a donkey. With Frances relentlessly circling the room and refusing to dance, Joanna had been denied the company of the other governesses sitting along the wall and chatting together. She needed some hopefully polite conversation with someone, anyone. She rarely received it at Huntford Place.
To Joanna’s luck, Frances’s hurried steps brought them closer to Major Preston and Joanna hazarded another glance at him. This time, his eyes met hers and the entire ballroom faded away until only the two of them and the soft melody of the violin remained. There were no wayward charges, laughing country squires or gallant young men to concern her. His gaze slid along the length of her, pausing at her chest which increased with her drawn-in breath.
Instead of stopping him with a chiding glance, she stood up straighter, offering him a better view of her in the prettiest dress she’d ever worn. His silent appraisal of her continued down to her feet and then up again. It kindled the strange fire burning near her centre which spread out to engulf her skin. She touched the curls at the back of her head, returning his attention to her face. With a slow, refined movement she lowered her hand, linking it with the other in front of her, each fingertip aching to trace the angle of his jaw to where it met his stiff cravat. She envied the linen encasing his throat and whatever woman he chose here tonight for his bride. She would experience the thrill of his body against hers, the heat of his wide hands upon her bare skin, the luxury of his height draping her like a heavy coat on a windy day.
‘Stop gawking at everything,’ Frances hissed, snapping Joanna out of her licentious daydream. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
Considering the lady’s encounter with Lieutenant Foreman, Frances possessed a strange idea of what might embarrass her. Joanna held her tongue, eager to avoid cultivating any more of Frances’s ire.
‘Might we not go speak with Major Preston?’ Joanna slid a sideways glance at Major Preston. He continued to watch her with an allure which almost made her rush to him, but she didn’t move. Instead, she tugged at the back of the dress, wondering what had come over her. She was here to chaperon Frances, not lose her head over a man so far above her the only relationship they could enjoy would risk her livelihood and go against everything Madame Dubois and Miss Fanworth had invested in her. They’d trained her to teach young ladies, not to become a kept tart.
‘Why would I want to talk to him?’ Frances shifted back and forth on her toes to look over the guests’ heads.
‘To save your slippers for the delight of dancing,’ Joanna joked. Her attempt at humour withered as Frances narrowed her eyes at Joanna. ‘And because I’ve noticed him admiring you.’
It was a lie, but an effective one.
‘He has?’ Frances’s attention whipped around to Major Preston so fast, the blonde curls at the back of her head flew out before they settled back against her neck. Frances thrust out her ample chest and cast Major Preston a none-too-subtle smile.
Frances’s interest in him ended his interest in them. He offered Frances a polite nod, then turned to speak to a gentleman Joanna vaguely recognised as someone of local importance. On the dance floor, one dance ended and couples began to form up for the next. Mr Winborn, the son of another local baronet who Catherine, Frances’s younger sister, had teased Frances about during their last visit to the village approached them.
‘Miss Huntford, may I have this dance?’ The lithe gentleman with a head of wild red hair held out his freckled hand to Frances.
‘Yes, I suppose I must be seen dancing with someone or people will talk.’ Frances placed her hand limply in his.
‘We can’t have that, now, can we?’ Mr Winborn concurred, not offended by her blunt acceptance and just as blasé about taking her to the dance floor as his partner.
Joanna sagged a little in relief. Frances couldn’t get into trouble while she danced. Joanna turned, excited to at last be able to join the other chaperons when a mountain of a man stepped between her and them. A badge of a bugle horn hung by a tin ribbon met her before she peered up to the peak to find Major Preston standing over her.
The scent of cedar surrounding him enveloped her and she pressed her heels into the floor to keep from wavering under the pressure of it. His dark coat ran tight along the horizontal plane of his shoulders. Brass buttons with crossed sabres held the wool closed at his navel and emphasised his narrow waist. The dark material stood in stark contrast to the white breeches covering his legs. She didn’t dare check to see what kind of buttons held those closed.
‘May I have this dance?’ He held out his hand to her. His palm was wide, with a faint scar starting at the first finger and crossing down to his wrist. Light red circles of old blisters further marred the plane of it. Here was no soft London gentleman, but one who knew something of hard work and danger. His nearness didn’t overwhelm her like the ones of the other titled men and women filling the room. Instead, she admired his confidence and wanted to emulate it.
She raised her hand to accept his, then jerked it back to her side, remembering herself. ‘When it comes to reels, I appear more like a horse trotting around a millstone than a lady of poise. It’s best for me to avoid them.’
He grinned at her, amused instead of insulted by her refusal. ‘Dancing doesn’t bring out my natural agility either. Despite lessons, I never developed the talent for it. I mastered riding instead.’
‘If only you could do both the way they do with the horses from Vienna I once read about.’ She froze, waiting for him to chastise her as Frances had for speaking out of turn. Instead, he rewarded her with a smile as captivating as his height. He was a good head taller than her.
‘Not my horse. He’s more mule than Lipizzaner and would throw me if I tried to make a dancer out of him.’
‘But you’d both be majestic for the moment you stayed in the saddle.’
‘It would be a very brief moment.’ He smothered a laugh behind his hand, the delight it brought to his eyes as captivating as the pensiveness which had called to her from across the room. ‘Do you ride?’
‘As poorly as I dance.’ Horsemanship was wasted on a governess.
‘I imagine you’d be quite elegant in the saddle if you tried.’
‘I’m sure I would be, for the brief moment before I was tossed out of it.’
He leaned in, the intensity of his woodsy scent strengthening with his closeness. She noticed a slight scar running along the hairline of his temple, the skin a touch whiter than that of his face. ‘I would catch you.’
Joanna stiffened, panic as much as excitement making her heart race. As a governess, she shouldn’t be speaking with him. She should draw this conversation to a close, remember his place and hers, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t been this at ease since the last time she’d been with her friends. She offered him an impish look from beneath her dark lashes, emboldened by his relaxed manner. ‘I’d do the same for you.’
He straightened, his laugh uncontained this time. Thankfully, the music reached a high crescendo, keeping all but those closest to them from hearing him.
‘Your catching me would make me a spectacle, more so than I already am.’ His laughter died away and his shoulders rose and fell with another weary
