Page 14 of Counting on Love

“Crispin is two years younger than I. Reginald is six. We made sure he was terrified of the dancing master. When his turn came around, he flat-out refused. Stubborn brat.” Lord Taverston laughed at the memory. “He took a caning rather than a lesson. We were horrified by what we had wrought. Well, I was. So we told Father that Rudolfo was useless and that we would teach Reg ourselves. He threw up his hands and allowed it. I don’t think he had been impressed with the man either, but gentlemen must learn to dance.”

“But if your brother didn’t suffer the dancing master, why does he hate to dance?”

“Crispin’s fault. He gave the first lesson. I caught on to his game and did the same.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you teach him false steps?”

“We taught him to follow.” The words were delivered straight-faced, but she nevertheless caught his blue eyes twinkling.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”

“He was—I commend him for it—excellent at the lady’s parts.”

“You are horrible. Your poor little brother.”

“We praised him, of course. After several weeks, we beckoned my mother in to see how well we’d taught him. Crispin played a fine waltz on the piano and Mother and Reginald both just stood there, arms on waists and shoulders, each waiting for the other to lead.”

“I hope your father caned you both.”

“He was laughing too hard.”

She giggled. It was a mean joke, but no real harm had been done.

“He did learn, of course. Eventually. The poor sod. It’s much harder to learn to do something right after having learned to do it well, wrong.”

“I still maintain you are horrid. My sympathies lie entirely with your brother.”

He smiled. Yet there was something, something tired, in his face. “Quite rightly. Lady Georgiana, have you been engaged for the next set? Must I deliver you somewhere?”

“Back to the Duchess would be fine, thank you.”

“If you have not promised the next dance, will you walk with me for a few moments in the garden?”

She should have given him the haughty look that Mama had taught her to let him know, without words, that he had crossed the line. Single ladies and gentlemen did not monopolize one another’s company at balls. He knew that. People would talk. But he looked so concerned, and his voice was so earnest, that she nodded.

“A few moments.”

He steered her toward the door. She did not look to see if her mother was watching. Certainly, she was, and Georgiana would receive a dressing down later.

The gardens were well-lit with paper lanterns. And many people were taking advantage of the cooling air after the warmth of the dance, so they were hardly alone. She let him escort her down a side path, but not far down it. He kicked aside a small stone, his face drooping.

“You must be thinking me ill-mannered indeed.”

“I confess, I am. This is not at all the thing. You have something you wish to say to me?”

He would not propose to her now. Here. No one was as ill-mannered as that. But if he did, she could justifiably say no.

“Only that I would, naturally, have sent a tastelessly large bouquet tomorrow morning, with a variety of blooms, all in that gorgeous shade of pink you’re wearing tonight.” He looked rueful. “I imagine you are accustomed to men paying such dubious tributes to your charms.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the fact. It surprised her to hear that men recognized how ridiculous they were. But maybe not all men did. Maybe there was something a little special about this one. She should not dismiss the possibility out of hand.

“And I would, of course, request your company on a ride in the park within a day or two. My curricle should impress you. And I’m a dab hand with the ponies.”

“I don’t doubt it.” And she expected there were seats in the Earl’s box at the theater that she and Alice and Mama would be invited to share for an evening. She did not say that, did not put into words the rote nature of being courted. She did not say that she already knew the conversations they would have. They would enumerate for one another their close family members, with an amusing anecdote or two about them. He had checked that box already. He would ask her favorite flower and wear it in his buttonhole at the next ton function. He might ask her which composers she particularly enjoyed if he was musical. They would not discuss politics or social ills or, God forbid, physical ones. All this in the course of five, perhaps six invitations, after which he would have to decide whether to pursue her or retreat.

Or if he was particularly bold, he would offer for her then.

How was this enough preparation for a lifetime together? For anyone?