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‘Why wait? Or are you a coward?’ she called out. ‘I wish to get this forfeit over.’
She was halfway across the dance floor when the master of ceremonies announced that the next dance would a German waltz. Hattie halted. A waltz? The next dance couldn’t be a waltz. They never waltzed at Summerfield. A waltz would mean being in Sir Christopher’s arms, looking up into his dark grey eyes. Impossible!
‘It would appear I was wrong. It isn’t a quadrille, but a waltz.’ Hattie shrugged a shoulder and attempted to ignore the ice-cold pit opening in her stomach. ‘Fancy that.’
‘Is a waltz problematic?’ he asked, lifting a quizzical brow, but his eyes gleamed with hidden lights.
‘Such a shame. We agreed to a quadrille.’ Hattie gave a falsely contrite smile. Escape. All she needed to do was to escape. He wouldn’t come after her. He wouldn’t create a scene. ‘It has been a pleasure, Sir Christopher.’
She dropped a quick curtsy and prepared to move towards where Stephanie sat, surrounded by the other matrons, surveying the dance floor.
Sir Christopher reached out and grasped her elbow, pulling her close to his hard frame. ‘Not so fast. We have an altogether different agreement.’
She tugged slightly, but he failed to release her.
‘Have you gone mad? What in the name of everything holy are you doing?’ she said in a furious undertone. ‘All I wanted to do was to rescue Livvy from your godson. Nothing more.’
‘You promised me the next dance, Mrs Wilkinson. A German waltz is the next dance.’ He tightened his grip, sliding it down her arm until her hand was captured. He raised it to his lips. ‘I hope you are the sort of woman who keeps her promises.’
Hattie hated the way his velvet voice slid over her skin, tempting her to flirt with him. Her traitorous body wanted to be held in his arms. But that would lead to heartbreak. She’d sworn off such men for ever. She concentrated on all the gossip about him—the women, the duels and the gaming—but her body stubbornly remained aware of him and the way his fingers held her wrist.
‘I implied, rather than specifically promised. There is a difference,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘You of all people should know the difference.’
‘An implied promise remains a promise.’ His full lips turned upwards. ‘Consider what might have been, Mrs Wilkinson, before you reject me entirely.’
Hattie studied the wooden floor, scuffed with the marks of a hundred dancing slippers, and concentrated on breathing steadily. Her entire being longed to say yes. Charm, that’s all it was, just as it had been with Charles. Once she allowed herself to be swayed, she’d lose everything.
‘I suspect you say that to everyone.’ She gave a light laugh and her pulse started beating normally again. ‘You’ve never seen me waltz.’
‘Ah, you don’t know how to waltz. You should have said rather than stooping to subterfuge.’
‘Waltzing reached Northumberland several years ago.’ Hattie put her hand on her hip. Talk about assumptions. Did she really look like a frumpy wallflower? When had that happened? ‘I can and do waltz when the occasion demands. I simply prefer not to waltz right now.’
‘Unfortunately, we can’t always get what we want, Mrs Wilkinson. Here all I had intended to do was to dance with you. However, if you insist, we shall have a flirtation in the garden. My late uncle always said that northern women were bold, but until I met you, I had no idea.’
‘Do such remarks cause the ladies in London to swoon at your feet? Up here, you are more likely to get a slapped face.’
‘It is one of my more endearing traits. Impossible, but with a modicum of wit,’ he said, giving her a hooded look. ‘But will the lady waltz? Or is she a coward with two left feet?’
‘I’ll waltz with you, if only to prove you wrong about my dancing ability,’ Hattie ground out.
‘Hand on my shoulder now and we shall begin.’ His tone became rich velvet which slid over her skin. ‘I promise you a dance to remember.’
‘Are you a dancing master now? Is there no end to your many talents?’
‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, particularly to the ladies.’
‘Proprieties will be observed, Sir Christopher.’
‘Did I suggest otherwise?’ Kit stopped. The instant his hand had encountered hers, he’d felt an unexpected and searing tug of attraction. For over a year, he hadn’t felt any attraction and suddenly this. Why her? Why this widow with an over-developed sense of propriety and hideous hairstyle? He had made it a policy not to be attracted to respectable women ever since Brighton.
