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"I should like to see you in black jacket and white tie." Kartik stops."Do you think I would look the grand gentleman?"
"Yes."
He bows to me."May I have this dance, Miss Doyle?"
I curtsy."Oh, but of course, Lord Hoity-toity."
"No," he says softly."May I have this dance?" Kartik is asking me to dance. I look about. The house is still shuttered with sleep. Even the sun is hiding behind the gray clouds of its bedclothes. No one's about, but they will be at any moment. My head whispers frantic warnings: Mustn't, Improper. Wrong. What if someone should see us? What about Simon . . .
But my hand makes the decision for me, pushing against the Christmas morning chill till it is joined with his.
"Ah, your, um, your other hand would be at my waist," I say, looking down at our feet.
"Here?" he says, resting his palm against my hip.
"Higher," I croak. His hand finds my waist. "That's it."
"What next?"
"We, we dance," I say, my breath coming out in shallow puffs.
He turns me round slowly and awkwardly at first. There is so much space between us that a third person could stand there. I keep my eyes on our feet stepping so close to each other, leaving patterns in the thin layer of sawdust.
"I think it would be easier if you weren't pulling away," he says.
"This is how it is done," I answer.
He pulls me closer to him, far closer than is appropriate. There is but a whisper of space between his chest and mine. Instinctively, I look around, but there is no one to see us but the horses. Kartik's hand travels from my waist to the small of my back, and I gasp. Turning round and round, his hand warm at my back, his other hand grasping mine, I am suddenly dizzy.
"Gemma," he says, so that I must look up into those magnificent brown eyes. "There is something I need to tell you. . . ."
He mustn't say it. It will ruin everything. I break away, my hand going to my stomach to steady myself.
"Are you all right?" Kartik says.
I smile weakly and nod. "The cold," I say. "Perhaps I should be getting back." "But first, I need to tell you--"
"There's so much to do," I say, cutting him off.
"Well, then," he says, sounding hurt."Don't forget your gift."
He hands me the charm blade. Our hands touch, and for an instant, it is as if the world holds its breath, and then his lips, those warm, soft lips, are on mine. It is as if I've been caught in a sudden rain, this feeling.
There's a sensation in my stomach like birds flapping as I break away."Please don't."
"It's because I am Indian, isn't it?" he asks.
"Of course not," I say."I don't even think of you as an Indian."
He looks as if he's been punched. Then he throws his head back and laughs. I do not know what I've said that is so amusing. He gives me such a hard look I fear my heart shall break from it."So you don't even think of me as Indian. Well, that is a tremendous relief."
"I-I didn't mean it like that."
"You English never do." He walks into the stables with me on his heels.
I'd never thought of how insulting that might sound. But now, too late, I realize that he is right, that in my heart I have taken for granted that I have been so frank with Kartik, so . . . myself. . . because he is Indian and so there could never be anything between us. Anything I could say now would be a lie. I've made such a mess of things.
Kartik is gathering his meager possessions into a rucksack.
