Treacherous Temptations(10)

Lady Blanchard answered the compliment as if it were her due, with an elegant inclination of her head and only the merest hint of a smile.

?It is true, my lady,? Mary gushed. ?I’ve never beheld anything so lovely.?

Lady Blanchard turned to Mary and smiled archly. ?Dancing is the premier mark of gentility in any woman, my dear Mary, and the minuet is foremost amongst the dances. Thus, you must master it—along with the sarabande, gigue, bourée, and gavotte, before you may attend any of the balls.?

Mary’s stomach dropped. ?All of them? But I have no experience of this kind of dancing.”

Lady Blanchard regarded her with raised brows. “Do you mean to say you’ve never danced?”

“Only country dancing, my lady. Never like this. I fear it is well beyond my ability.”

The countess waved her hand. “Nonsense, child. You have the benefit of a master’s tutelage and must simply apply yourself.” She glanced to the clock with a frown. “I am expecting someone. I leave you now in Monsieur Gaspar’s capable hands.”

In dismay, Mary watched the countess depart.

“Mademoiselle?” The dancing master flourished a bow and then offered his arm and an indulgent smile on painted lips. Yet an hour later found him tearing at his periwig and Mary near to tears.

“Non! Non! Et non!? cried the Frenchman. ?You must rise on the toe and sweep the foot. Thusly.” He demonstrated with exaggerated patience. “And the arms, they are too stiff!”

“Like this?” Mary rounded her arms and began the steps again.

“Par blue! Elle se deplacer comme une vache! You move like the cow and the figure, it is all wrong! It is zed.”

“Zed?” Mary repeated blankly.

“Oui, zed!” he insisted.

“I don’t comprehend you, monsieur,” Mary cried in growing frustration. “I’ve told you already I have no French.”

Throwing up his hands in Gallic fashion he shouted, “Zed! Zed!” as if bellowing would bring enlightenment. “Etres vous simple? It is the last letter of the English alphabet! Comprenez? Zed! S’il vous plait dancez la figure maintenant.?

?I’m sorry, Monsieur Gaspar. Would you please show me once more?? Mary asked, flustered beyond despair and on the verge of tears.

?Perhaps, monsieur,” a deep-timbered, cultured, and slightly accented voice arrested the dancing master’s impending tantrum, “the difficulty lies not so much in the student’s lack of aptitude, but in the instructor’s method of tuition.”

Mary turned to face her would-be rescuer, a vision that stole her breath. Tall and elegant, he was dressed in hues of richly embroidered satin, bedecked with yards of frothy lace, and jewels that would be the envy of any woman, yet paradoxically, there was nothing effeminate about him. He advanced into the room with a languid gait to halt before them, flicking over the Frenchman with inscrutably dark eyes and an expression of frigid hauteur.

It was his eyes that first entranced her, deep-set and piercing indigo-blue beneath straight, dark brows that seemed starkly incongruous compared to the fashionable white powdered wig. To Mary, his face was a fascinating study of contrasts, at once strong, proud, and distinctly aristocratic. Yet, the imposing vision he presented was somehow softened by a generous mouth and the most fascinating dimple in his chin. Mary was next riveted to that dimple, and then lastly to the softening curve of his mouth when the stranger inclined his head to her alone, as if the dancing master were completely beneath his notice.

It was an intentional snub that made the Frenchman tremble with indignation. “I will have you know, monsieur, that I am le maitre-de-dance to the very Princesses Royales!”

“I should never make such a confession, were I you,” the stranger drawled.

The frenetic little Frenchman puffed his chest. “You think it an idle boast?”

The gentleman chuckled, a low, warm, rumbling sound. “No indeed, monsieur, for I have seen how execrably they dance!”

The Frenchman purpled and erupted into a stream of incomprehensible curses. With flailing arms and sheet music flying, he signaled the musician, and the pair stormed from the chamber, a scene so utterly preposterous that Mary thought she would burst.

She clapped her hand over her mouth in an effort to suppress the irreverent flow of giggles, while her knight-errant threw his head back, making no effort at all to stifle his own laughter.

After a long breath-catching moment, he regarded her with blue-black eyes still glittering with mirth. “My apologies for disrupting your lesson, signorina, but I had little choice given what a poor specimen conducted it. But since I am to blame for your dancing master’s ignoble flight, might I have the privilege of finishing it?”

Mary’s mouth went instantly dry. “Y-you wish to teach me?”

“If you would grant me the honor,” he replied with a flash of his brilliant white teeth. Was there any imperfection in him?

“But it is already hopeless. I fear Monsieur Gaspar would shortly have thrown up his hands without your intervention for I am also a most execrable dancer.”

“Why don’t you permit me to be the judge?”

She was incredulous that he desired to do this and even more terrified of tripping over his feet as well as her own. “Please,” she begged. “I will only embarrass myself and bruise your toes.”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “You only want for the right partner.” He offered his arm to her. “My lady?”