“I know.” Mr. Sharpe squeezed Keith’s shoulder. “I’m not Sir Howard. You don’t have to prove yourself to me.”
“Thank you. I’m fully aware of the differences between you and Sir Howard.”
“Sir Howard is a parasite,” Mr. Sharpe hissed the last word. “He sucks the life out of our society. People like him should—” He exhaled. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Why don’t you search for Violante? She’s still angry with me because I won’t let her dance. She might need some company.”
Keith pretended not to notice Mr. Sharpe’s angry words. In the current, tense climate, words like those would grant Mr. Sharpe a close investigation from the police, maybe even an arrest.
“I will find her, sir. Thank you.” He weaved through the crowd, a nagging feeling at the back of his head. But then again, Sir Howard deserved Mr. Sharpe’s scorn, and the two of them had a past.
He found Violante in an empty corner. Arms folded over her chest, she glowered at the dancers, swaying her hips in rhythm with the music. Her pretty blue gown enhanced her violet eyes, and her golden curls framed her heart-shaped face. Despite her troubled expression, she was lovely, beautiful, perfect.
His chest, cheeks, and whole body warmed instantly, faster than the mulled wine could ever do. He dallied, searching for something clever to say. She’d offered to teach him how to read and write, and he looked forward to starting his lessons, although being alone with her made him nervous and excited. She always carried a book with her, and after the one-monthban imposed by her father, she’d devoured novels at a speed he didn’t believe was human. Wherever she went, her nose was stuck in a book. If she didn’t read, she talked about books.
He wanted to understand what made books so fascinating for her. But if he was going to be honest, the reason he’d agreed to be taught by her wasn’t only his curiosity about books. He had no right to feel anything for her. She was the daughter of the man who had saved him from a life of hardship and suffering, maybe even death. He was no one, owned nothing, and most likely his situation wouldn’t change in the future. He couldn’t offer her any of the comforts she was used to enjoying in her manor. Besides, she’d marry someone who was rich and could write his own name.
Keith’s body didn’t listen to his cold logic. A stirring started in his chest every time she smiled, and when she frowned as she did now, he wanted to smooth those worry lines with his lips. He shook his head. Dangerous thoughts. That path would lead to his demise. Nothing more.
She waved when she saw him, and he couldn’t dally any longer.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Sharpe?” he asked.
She pouted. “Violante. How many times must I tell you? And no, I’m not enjoying myself.” She eyed his mug. “Mulled wine? May I take a sip?”
“I’ll fetch a mug for you.” He went to leave, but she took his wrist, sending shivers up his arm.
“Please don’t bother. I’ll never finish a whole mug. I’d like only a sip unless you mind, of course.”
Curse him to hell and back. “Not at all.” He offered her his mug.
Something really had to be wrong with him, because for some reason, watching her drink from his mug started all sorts of stirrings, and not only in his chest.
“Thank you. I needed it.” She handed him the mug. Her tongue darted out to catch a ruby drop on the corner of her mouth, and he thought he was going to die with the sensations rushing through him.
She huffed. “No dancing for Christmas. So many gentlemen want to dance, something rare, let me tell you, and I had to refuse all who asked. Can you think of a more cruel punishment?”
Being whipped? “Actually, I can.”
She unfolded her arms. “I’m sorry. I must look so silly to you. It was a figure of speech.”
“There’s no need to apologise.”
“You’re too kind.” She touched his hand, and he nearly dropped his mug.
No, he wasn’t kind. His thoughts weren’t kind at all at that moment. He wanted to taste the wine on her lips and tongue, hold her, and feel her body against his as he danced with her. If he could dance, that is. He gazed around. Mr. Sharpe was nowhere to be seen.
“Maybe you can teach me to dance,” he said. “You wouldn’t exactly be dancing but teaching me.”
Her violet eyes brightened. “Yes…no. I don’t want to cause you trouble. I almost broke your neck. That’s enough.”
“We won’t get in trouble if we dance away from the dance floor, like in the other room for example.” He pointed in the direction where the anteroom was. “And if your father complains, I’ll take the blame.”
A crease appeared between her delicate eyebrows. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
“He won’t catch us. I’m sure of it. And we’ll be quick.”
She rose on her tiptoes to glance over his shoulder. “Papa won’t be happy.”
“We’ll be careful.” He put the mug on the windowsill and stretched out his hand. “May I have the honour?”
