Elisabeth Fairchild (20 page)

Miss Ramsay was not destined to become Lady Walsh. No, he was here to change all that. He was here to win her in any way he could. He was here, too, at his uncle’s request, “to be certain that Lester Fletcher’s last act on this earth did not leave a poor girl penniless because of her brother’s bad luck over a hand of cards.” Miles had first thought to honor that wish by winning Walsh for Miss Ramsay. He knew now that would not be right. He knew too, that he must inform Miss Ramsay of his role in the loss of her land. What a tangle! How to unknot it without destroying all chance of happiness?

Once again, the doors opened to admit someone, not Aurora Ramsay. Miles stared at the knotted watch face and saw an insurmountable dilemma. Surely Fate was not so cruel as to point out his love to him in the very instant another man snatched her away? Miles flicked open the casing and blinked at the hands of time. A quarter past. Perhaps she was not coming.

He would wait five minutes longer, no more.

“Mr. Fletcher?”

Her voice was so soft Miles thought at first he imagint. But no, it came again, a little stronger. “Mr. Fletcher?”

He rose from the bench.

She stood, uncertainly, at the head of the waterfall flight of marble that led down to him, unable to see him until he stood. Columns blocked her view. He had not heard her approach in the flurry of arrivals. How long had she been standing there, like a fawn that meant to fade away into the forest at too loud a noise or too abrupt a movement?

“Miss Ramsay. You have come!” He must not allow her a chance to reconsider. Slowly he approached, as one approaches a kitten that would skitter away from beneath ones hand. As he drew closer, he said, “I am pleased.”

Her chin rose. Her shoulders straightened. She looked him bravely in the eye. “Do not mistake my reason for being here, Mr. Fletcher. I wish to dance, and dance well--nothing more. I would not land on the floor with Lord Walsh on top of me . . .”

The door swung wide, halting her in mid-sentence by throwing light and noise and the smell of the outdoors between them. Before the talking, laughing tide of gentlemen could descend, he held out his arm, unsmiling and serious though he could not but be amused at her ironic reluctance to roll about with her chosen one. It seemed such a contradiction of intent. “Shall we proceed to the South Tribune? We will not be bothered by so many interruptions and the flooring is ideal.”

She took his arm warily, her manner so stiff it did not bode well for the intimacy that dancing required.

“Proceed,” she said.

Aurora blushed when they arrived at last at the south tribune, a book-lined, chandeliered chamber, attached an arch to the statue gallery. He was right. This place was empty but for a footman who restocked the grate in the fireplace that warmed the long, open gallery when the evenings grew chill. The gallery reminded her of her first meeting with Miles. He had pulled her from the floor, a host of stone faces looking down their noses at her, when she had fallen in a heap with Lord Walsh. She was on the point of saying something in connection with that awkward moment when Fletcher took up her hand and whirled her in a lively fashion around the room.

For a moment, Aurora felt as if she were dancing--as if, in an instant, all of her limbs coordinated perfectly with the movements of her partner. His hands, firm and expressive, told her exactly where it was she should be, so that they did not run into one another, or crush toes. Just as suddenly, her mind rebelled against the notion that learning to dance could come so easily to her in this man’s arms when with Walsh she crashed to the floor. As if her doubts affected reality, she missed a step and trod firmly on his foot.

“Oh dear,” she whispered.

Without any indication through word or gesture that he regretted her recent overbearing contact with his foot, Miles stopped and began a running monologue, describing his every move and how he expected her to interact with him.

“You would do well at first,” he suggested briskly, his manner that of a school master, “to accept the hand of none other than the young men of your acquaintance whom you are convinced have a proper grasp of both the form and steps of any dance in which you wish to participate.”

She thought of Walsh as he held out his hand to her. She must think of Walsh or forget him entirely in this gentleman’s company. She placed her hand in Fletcher’s, and again, as before, when they came together he had her whirling like gossamer in a summer’s breeze. He stopped their progress before she chanced to mangle his toes a second time, saying, “An informed partner can help your form immensely. The prese of his hands, the tilt of his head, even the direction of his gaze will hint at your direction.” He moved toward her.

She took a step back, expecting he meant to take advantage.

“An informed gentleman,” he assured her coolly, stepping once again too close for comfort, “will place himself a little to the right, and the proper distance in front of you.”

She edged away, determined not to fall prey to smooth maneuvering. She must remember her purpose--Walsh. Fletcher did not smile, but his hay-maiden’s eyes twinkled for a moment in a most audacious fashion, as if he read her very thoughts and was amused. Deliberately, he closed the distance between them again.

“The proper distance,” he repeated.

Aurora felt heat rush from the base of her neck to the roots of her hair. She swayed a bit, but she did not back away. She must not allow him to see how much he rattled her. She meant to remain resolute.

“We begin with the waltz.” His voice was so gentle she looked him in the eye, only to find he gazed somewhere over her shoulder. “Your partner will encircle your waist with his right arm.” His actions followed his words.

Remembering the last time this arm had crept around her waist, Aurora tensed. He was far too close. She could not ignore such proximity. Like a block of wood, she stood rigidly before him, wondering what might happen if their eyes met, if his lips sank to brush the lobe of her ear, if the hand at her waist drew her nearer still.

But, his focus was complete, studied in its propriety. His every move was governed by the dance, nothing more, just the dance. Walsh stood between them, not physically, but certainly in her mind.

He took her right hand in his left. “Your right hand, in mine, fingers laced,” he instructed. “The arm should bend at the elbow, but in a relaxed fashion.”

Everything he described he demonstrated, every element was double-checked. His gloved hand laced warmly with hers, but not too warmly. The hand at her waist darted up to check the positioning of her elbow. She blinked in consternation, far more moved than he would appear to be, to find their limbs in intimate contact.

“You should try to be as relaxed as possible. Your left hand--” she knew instinctively it was meant to rest on his shoulder. “Very good.” He looked her in the eye for a brief but telling moment. Her heart and stomach fluttered.

“Relax,” he pleaded softly, his gill flower gaze moving on, to touch fleetingly the hand that rested, stiff as cordwood, on his shoulder. The solid touch of his fingers was anything but fleeting as, like a puppeteer pulling marionette strings, he gently flexed her wrist.

“Relax, relax,” he crooned. “You cannot dance well if you do not relax.”

She was anything but relaxed. Her chest rose and fell, a sign of agitation. Her pulse pounded in her temples. Her gaze met his.

Miles Fletcher remained completely unrattled, as cool as a cucumber. He did not try to seduce her at all! He seemed, to the contrary, to hold her aloof, if not with his arms, then with attitude. Aurora was confused. She knew not what to make of such a complete change in his approach.

“We begin with six steps and then repeat. We shall start slowly and build speed as we get along. Right?”

“Right,” she agreed dubiously, glancing uncertainly at her feet, which seemed to be far too close to a very glossy pair of boots.

His voice was warm, but not too warm. When the footman rose from his task and quietly abandoned them, Aurora was not at all embarrassed. Miles sounded like a governess, dictating form. “Right. As my left foot glides back, your right foot glides forward.” He pulled her with him as he moved.

She stiffened.

“Relax,” he drew her irresistibly toward him with the movements of the steps. “Keep your knees soft. No need to stiffen. Now the left foot advances in front of the right as you rise onto your toes and turn halfway round.”

“Oh!” she froze. Her movements, none too accurate, had brought her in physical contact with his chest.

“Perhaps we move too slowly.” His breath disturbed the curls that hung from her temples. There was, Aurora decided, something almost as alarming about his lack of any attempt to take advantage.

“May we begin again,” she suggested, wondering if he felt nothing for her, and had merely taken advantage of what was so freely offered in the attic. “I shall do my best not to run you down this time,” she said, and waited for some flirtatious retort.

“I leave that privilege to Lord Walsh,” was what he said, as if to acknowledge Walsh’s precedence over any claim he had on her.

She frowned. This was not at all the response she had expected. They began again and again, and again and again, until she mastered all six steps--their bodies moving in uneasy unison. Their thoughts, their very hearts, she could not judge so well. She could not begin to guess what he thought or felt. His remark with regard to Walsh may have been meant to calm her, but to the contrary she was perturbed by his ready capitulation.

“Shall we put them together?”

For a moment, so deep were her ruminations that she did not grasp to what he referred. “Together?”

His eyebrows rose. “The steps. I think you are ready now to put them all together.”

She stared at his shoes and wondered how much damage she might do to the perfect sheen of their polish. “I suppose,” she agreed.

He lifted her chin with a gloved knuckle so she would look at his face rather than her feet. For a wild moment her heart would not be still. She thought he meant to confound her again by kissing her.

Such was not his purpose.

“If you promise not to laugh at my whistling I shall do my best to provide us with music.” His smile reminded her of the happiness of his lips on hers. His eyes seemed deep enough to drown in.

“Whistle away,” she whispered, the words sticking in her throat.

He puckered his lips and blew, breath stirring her hair, occasionally raising a cool chill along her neck and across the exquisitely sensitive recesses of her ear. She closed her eyes with his every breath, remembering the perfect harmony of their movements, of their matching need when he had taken her in his arms in the attic. With that memory they moved in harmony again, steps mirrored, her arms no longer wooden in his, her waist at home with the heat of his hand.

She could feel the difference in their dancing. Every step, every sway in perfect time. Having done well, she was pleased enough to look up at him. They whirled quite magically together for a moment, face to face, he with his lips provocatively puckered, she with her eyes fastened for an instant on his mouth.

His whistling ceased.

She stumbled a little, and he quite naturally drew her closer to keep her from falling. Their lips were suddenly almost on top of one another. The blue of his eyes had swallowed her up. She stiffened. Now, what she had been waiting for, what she had feared, must come to pass. Surely, he meant to kiss her again, to take advantage of the moment!

Again she miscalculated his intentions. He steadied her, hands firmly grounding her, so that she neither staggered nor fell into him or away. He stared for a moment into her eyes, his own dancing merrily, his mouth amused as though it bit back something suggestive, either in

word or deed. His tongue passed once over his lips. He took a deep breath and said lightly, “Perhaps you will hum a little with me. We shall soon have you dancing fit to sweep any man off his feet.”

She could not resist the quip that must naturally follow such a remark. “A man has already been swept off his feet by my dancing,” she said wryly. “It is to leave him standing I do endeavor.”

He smiled, yet the smile met not the blue of his eyes. “I am mistaken then in assuming you wished the fellow brought to his knees?”

Deftly, his humor topped hers, at the same time reminding her of Walsh, whom she had vowed not to forget.

Miles Fletcher, Aurora decided, was changed, more restrained. Thankful at first to see such transformation, in the end, when the dancing lesson was pronounced a success and they parted, she went away wishing--she had to admit it to herself, if no one else--wishing he had kissed her.

To be reminded that some tension is to be desired between a man and a woman, Aurora had only to come into the company of a Fletcher. She began to feel completely at ease in Walsh’s company, perhaps too much at ease. They rode again on the following morning, a successful, if uneventful, coming together.

In the course of that ride, Aurora encountered her first Fletcher at the Doric temple in the woods. A jovial group of ladies and gentlemen gathered in the clearing. Aurora approached the spot with reluctance. This place had become too endowed with meaning, too intimately connected with her feelings for Miles. Here, she had been taught many things. Fearing Lord Walsh would insist they take part in the conversation and laughter, she skirted the temple widely.