“Tell me the difference.”
“What?”
“The difference between you and one of thesefineladies you speak of.”
Pink touched her cheeks, and she looked away. “Now you mock me.”
“No I don’t.” He followed her to the other side of the room, where she perused another line of shelves without ever pulling out a title. “I am just curious as to the requirements of a fine lady. What can they do that you cannot?”
“Needlework, painting, writing good letters and invitations.”
“Trivial things, if you ask me. Go on.”
“And…dancing.”
“You cannot?”
The pink intensified. “No. I can run and climb trees—but I have never danced in my life.”
He grabbed her hand. Then the other. “I shall teach you.”
“Oh, no. Please, I—”
“Do not be afraid. I’m only half devil, you know, and just because no one else likes me does not mean you should not.” He pulled her away from the bookshelf, out into the open, and shoved back a chair with his foot. “There. We are at the ball, and I am the Duke of Sussex. That is to bring you comfort in case you feel ill at the thought of dancing with a Northwood.”
“But there is no music.”
“Unnecessary.” He positioned her at the edge of the chair, nodded, then stepped back himself. “We are joining the set. Partners face each other like this, see, at about four and a half feet apart.”
“How should I stand?”
“In line with everyone else. That is the main thing, unless you want everyone whispering about you for disrupting the straight line.”
“How terrible.”
“Indeed. Now bow when I do—and follow me.” They came together, switched places, then came together again. Her hands were warm as they spun. Soft too. Even when they parted again, the air still lingered with scents of her loose hair and fresh rose water.
“Is that all?”
“I am not a good teacher.” He moved the chair back in place and swallowed. What was he doing anyway? Thinking about her hands. Her hair. If he cared for anyone’s hair, it would be Miss Haverfield’s, the girl he would one day win enough respect from to properly court.
Not this girl. He was trying to remedy his soiled name—not plunge it deeper into gossip by courting an untutored child of the woods.
Even if she was lovely.
“I must go.” He strode to the shelf left of the hearth, however, and pointed to a line of manuals. “There are several editions here ofThe English Dancing Masterby John Playford. You will find them helpful.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded, smiled, and left before he could persuade himself to take her hands again. How many kinds of a fool was he? From now on, they must keep only the murder between them. Not dancing. Or anything else…like yesterday when he’d sat too close to her and been near enough to spot every fleck in the soft gray eyes. What were gray eyes, anyway, to shiny blue ones like Miss Haverfield’s?
Felton swept back into the study, told his goodbyes to Lord Gillingham, and left moments later. The path had grown dark, the moon was obscured, and a misty rain drizzled down on him. He walked faster. If he had known a rain was forthcoming, he would have taken the carriage—or at least his horse—to avoid arriving home in soaked clothes.
Mamma would say he invited death and catastrophe with such carelessness. “Do you know how many fall ill and die of colds every day?” she was wont to say. But maybe by the time he reached home, she would be abed and would not have to see his wet attire—
Something moved at the stone wall to his right. Then to his left.
Felton halted as a black figure appeared in front of him. Hooded and faceless in the darkness. Tall, looming, a mere three feet away.
