Night's Honor (Elder Races #7)(43)

But the rest of her was too exasperated to listen. She flung out her hands and opened her eyes wide. “Who says ‘fortuitous’ these days?”

He just looked at her. The slanted angle of his mouth had returned, as well as the slight snap to his diction. “Apparently, I do. Now, if you are quite through, it might behoove you to remember that a successful attendant is nowhere near this argumentative with her patron.”

The devil took hold of her tongue. There was no other explanation for it.

“Behoove,” she said.

The angle of his mouth leveled out, and his voice turned exceedingly, dangerously soft. “Yes. Behoove.”

She opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. Don’t say it. . . .

Gray-green eyes narrowed, daring her to cross the line.

Then the rest of what he had said sank in.

A successful attendant. Meaning, of course, that she wasn’t a successful one. She wasn’t anywhere near it. She wouldn’t let him bite her, and she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

Was this what he had meant when he had said that some people couldn’t settle into the lifestyle of attendant, even when they wanted to?

Discouragement sagged her shoulders. With a groan, she bent her head and put her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m failing completely at this, aren’t I?”

TEN

Xavier covered his mouth with one hand as he regarded Tess’s dejected figure. “I don’t know that I would quite say you’re failing completely.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice muffled. “I find those words so encouraging.”

Some undefined impulse brought him out of his chair. He walked around to her and when he reached her side, he leaned back against the table, crossed his arms and looked down at an angle at her bent head. “Perhaps we should take a moment to recall a frightened young woman I met at the Vampyre’s Ball. Do you remember her?”

Her head lifted, and she looked up at him.

Those large, lovely dark eyes of hers were surrounded by shadows. She looked tired and worried. He smiled. “That young woman could not run for an hour, nor could she hit nine marks out of ten when shooting a gun. And she certainly could not have surprised Raoul so thoroughly, could she?”

Her gaze fell, and she pretended to straighten the spoon again. “Probably not.”

Nor would that young woman have tested his patience so thoroughly or endured having him in such close proximity, but he decided not to push his luck by mentioning that.

Instead, he held out one hand to her, palm up. “I think we are through with etiquette for the evening. Now we will begin with the dancing lessons.”

Her gaze focused on his outstretched hand. She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she would not take it. Then she put her hand in his, her gesture uncertain.

He didn’t give her time to reconsider. Instead, he curled his fingers strongly around hers and tugged. Following his prompt, she rose to her feet. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and firmly led her away, toward the ballroom.

While they had talked—and argued—the sunlight had faded enough so that he could enter the ballroom. He turned on the lights then led her into the room, pausing only to look at her curiously as her hand tightened and she dragged at his arm.

Her sharp gaze darted from the windows to the gleaming expanse of the floor, and he realized what she was doing. She was making sure it was safe enough for him to enter.

Something startled inside him warmed. Not only did she pay attention to the details in her immediate environment, also she had good protective instincts.

“It’s safe,” he said. “But thank you.”

The glance she gave him was as uncertain as everything else she had done that evening, but her grip on his arm relaxed, and they walked forward together until they stood in the middle of the empty, polished floor.

Earlier, he had set a portable stereo on the piano, already loaded with a CD filled with waltz music. He turned to face her, and while he was not quite able to ignore how her heart sped up when they came face-to-face, at least her scent didn’t fill with such overwhelming fear.

“The waltz is a simple and elegant dance,” he said. “And the music is beautiful. It’s in triple meter.”

“I’m not musical,” she told him, looking down at their feet. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Don’t look at your feet. Nobody looks at their feet when they dance. Look at me.” He paused until her head lifted, and her wary gaze met his. “Triple meter simply means three beats to a measure. One-two-three, one-two-three. That’s the rhythm of the dance. Spatially, visualize a box. We will be stepping around the corners of the box together. You move backward, while I move forward.”

The angle of her head acquired a skeptical slant. “Why can’t you move backward, and I move forward?”

Trust Tess to ask that question. He bit back another smile. “Convention. I’m the male, and you’re the female. That means I lead and you follow, which is good for you, since I already know the dance.”

“Well, you know how that old saying goes,” she said.

“What saying is that?”

A spark of humor entered her gaze. “Ginger Rogers did the same thing Fred Astaire did, only backward and in high heels.”

He had met Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers once in 1934, when they had come to Evenfall to dance for the Masque at winter solstice. He chuckled. “Very true. I’ll keep the pace and guide you around the corners of the box, like thus.”