though that number remained few. Monsieur Bournon practised with her ordinarily and he was of smaller stature. Her eyes rose and she found his expression one of dubious curiosity.
What an unexpected twist to an otherwise troubling day. Who was this stranger? And how did he come to need dance instruction when his appearance presented as polished as any gentleman with whom she’d ever made acquaintance? Here stood a man who hadn’t gone soft like so many aristocrats, his physique broad and fit. His clothes were pristine and pressed, his dark brown hair combed precisely to fashion and, unless she was mistaken, she detected the warm, spicy scent of bergamot in his cologne. How she loved candied orange peel. The thought eased the moment.
‘May I?’
His deep voice resonated, slid through her senses with a lasting beat as if he opened the door to her heart and whispered to her soul. Not the hollow echo that accompanied every sound in the vast ballroom. Instead, the two words vibrated within her and the reaction proved fascinating and unsettling. His striking appearance had already set her heart to beat triple-time; she needed no other observation to abrade her nerves. Aware she stood a motionless ninny, she forced a smile and they moved equidistant to close the space between them.
‘Of course.’ She replied and he reached for her, one hand settling in her gloved palm while the other gently clasped her waist. They touched and her gaze shot to his in kind with an expression of equal surprise.
A woman could get lost in such large brown eyes, the colour of his irises a mixture of coffee and honey, framed by lush dark lashes, long and curled at the very tips. She swallowed, hoping he couldn’t hear the sound.
And still they stood motionless.
She’d danced with partners who’d held her in identical frame, but somehow this moment was different. Defining. His touch warmed her from the inside out, filled her with an unidentifiable sensation that assured and at the same time pitched her pulse to high riot. She must control her nerves and accomplish her very best dancing. For some reason, it seemed all the more important today.
From the corner of her eye she noticed Mr Moira retreating to the far wall where he raised a violin. The first stroke of the bow startled yet again and she jumped, Lord W’s hand tightening on her waist as if he wished to hold her safe and prevent her from falling. They hadn’t taken one step, but it pleased all the same, the protective measure he showed without the slightest provocation.
With a subtle nudge he swayed into the music, leading with the firm insistence of his hand at her waist, the measured exhale of his breath against her temple. They danced in silence, the graceful, disconsolate melody fraught with unexpected sentiment. It filled her with gentle longing and loss, as if myriad tender emotions, fragile and evanescent, milled within, unable to find their correct tempo and position.
Lord W appeared equally affected though she hadn’t shifted her eyes, content studying the elaborate folds in his cravat, the rugged shape of his jaw, how his Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed unspoken words. His mouth possessed a deep cleft at the peak of his upper lip like the crease of a heart. How would it feel against her mouth? Her pulse tripped at the wayward thought, and she knew without looking he possessed a tentative unrest, just as she did. They’d scheduled the lesson to learn the proper footwork, yet their steps were completed without hesitation, their bodies consumed with some unexplainable force far more important than timing or inclination to the turn. They danced a grand circle around the ballroom, her heart counting the rhythm more than her mind, the sensation bewildering, but pleasant, a lick of fiery desire anxious to become a conflagrant fire.
What was this? What strange passion affected him? Unsettled him? He’d danced with numerous partners through every lesson, never the same woman twice, all experience at social functions mirroring a similar routine, yet now, in this moment, he’d never felt more scattered and collected, the opposing qualities at war with his composure. He focused on the far wall, each step in time, every pace completed perfectly, yet blood pounded in his veins, the disconnect of sensibility and emotion too loud to comprehend. Why was this happening when he’d worked so hard to organise his life and compartmentalise each aspect of his future? Now that he’d chosen Claire for his wife, he had no use for inconvenient feelings. Whatever they may be. His brain floundered for a logical explanation and found nothing.
He dared a glance at the lady within his arms, her flowing hair arranged in a lovely manner that allowed the length to cascade down her back. The loose ends glossed amber light from the shimmering candles and caught in the air as they spun through a turn. Her eyes remained steadfast, fixed on his neckcloth and seemingly unaware his body reacted to her presence with ardent intensity.
It was wrong. An ignominious betrayal. Yet he couldn’t look away and refused to debate his respectability. He would observe every aspect of her appearance before their dance ended and he forced himself to forget.
Abandoning inhibition and reason, he noted the bow of lashes upon her delicate cheek, the creamy skin flushed soft as a new-born rose, and her endearing spectacles, which reflected light and shadows with their rotation through every turn. Pretty seemed an inadequate descriptor. His brain discarded beautiful next. Exquisite and rare came to mind and took immutable hold. Her features were fine-boned and delicate, her mouth poised as if she worked hard to keep words contained, and when she tilted her head ever so slightly and slanted a fleeting glance, her eyes darting to his and back again, the unintentional flirtation sent blood to his groin in a hot rush of desire.
The dance continued, the violin serenaded, strains of song accompanying the fluidity of their progress, and still he grew more attentive; her tiny waist beneath his palm, the warm, delicate trust of her gloved hand, her quickness of breath. It was as though each rotation wound him tighter, every revolution pulled him inward. He blinked hard and widened his eyes, at once aware he’d drawn her to his chest, all but crushed her to his body and she hadn’t uttered a word of objection.
He stopped, abrupt and jolting, though the song continued for several lingering notes before Moira realised they no longer danced. Penwick could only stand and stare, the distress in the lady’s eyes mirroring the turbulence coursing through him. What had he done? He waited not another minute before rushing from the hall.
I have dark hair and eyes, in case you’ve ever wondered. I mention it because I find myself thinking about your appearance at times and imagining the person behind the lovely words. I hope I haven’t offended you. I’d never forgive myself if you believed me shallow or otherwise short on manners. I confess my curiosity can be a curse.
His chest thrummed. A long carriage ride through congested London streets, yet here he sat at Boodle’s and his chest thrummed still.
Penwick took a long swallow of brandy, hoping the soothing burn of expensive liquor would quiet his unrest, but it did little more than fuel the torment of conflicted emotion.
He laid his hand across his breast, unwittingly reminded of the letter in his pocket, and snatched his grip to the glass again, his pulse a heavy beat. Perhaps his time had arrived, his heart about to fail. It was how he’d come to the earldom unexpectedly. His extended family possessed an abundance of chest apoplexy and a shortage of males. But no, the unidentifiable sensation was not his heart deteriorating; rather it seemed overfilled, stressed at the walls with urgency. So much so it vibrated, causing the illogical palpitations which stoked his angst.
He wouldn’t label it obsession, but somehow, through their lengthy exchanges, ink on paper, nothing more than slashes and curves, she’d become a part of him, a part he never wished to be without.
