To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(18)

“Are you all right, Lady Emeline?” the girl asked innocently. “You look hot.”

Oh, these terrible colonials with their blunt ways! Emeline saw the horrid man smirk, though she doubted anyone else caught his expression.

“Quite.” Emeline twitched her left sleeve forward. “Shall we begin again with those dance steps? Mr. Hartley, this will no doubt bore you to tears. We give you leave to go about your business.”

“I would, Lady Emeline, had I any.” Mr. Hartley settled into a chair and crossed his leg at the ankle as if he planned to stay into the night. “Business, that is. I’m afraid I’m quite free all afternoon.”

No sane person could expect her to actually smile at this news.

“Ah. Then we will naturally enjoy your company,” she replied stiffly.

Tante glanced at her sharply, eyebrows raised in either question or censure; it was hard to tell. Reprimanded, Emeline schooled her features, and her aunt began to play. Emeline watched Rebecca practice the steps for nearly a second before her mind turned to her embarrassing exchange with Mr. Hartley.

What in the world had possessed her? Everyone knew that gentlemen liked a lady to be soft and gently spoken. Wasn’t that the one lesson that was drummed into a girl’s head right from the cradle? Well, that and preserving one’s virginity for marriage, but that hardly applied in her case. She couldn’t even claim intoxication from the wine at luncheon as an excuse. It had been regrettably over-watered, as Tante had been sure to point out.

And the insidiously suggestive words she’d spoken to Mr. Hartley at the last! She blushed again just thinking of them. But perhaps he hadn’t understood the double entendre? Emeline glanced at Mr. Hartley. He was watching her, his eyelids half lowered and a smile playing about his mouth. He caught her look and quirked one eyebrow upward. Emeline hastily looked away. Quite obviously, he had indeed understood.

“Oh, I just can’t!” Rebecca suddenly stopped in midturn. “These steps are so slow. I feel like I’ll overbalance and fall.”

“Perhaps you need a partner,” Mr. Hartley said. He rose and made a lovely bow to his sister. “May I?”

The girl blushed very prettily. “You don’t mind?”

“Not unless you stomp on my toes.” He grinned down at Rebecca.

Emeline blinked. Mr. Hartley was exceedingly handsome when he smiled. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?

“The only problem,” he continued, “is that I’m in as much need of tuition as you.” He looked expectantly at Emeline.

Devious. Emeline nodded briskly and stepped forward so that she and Rebecca now flanked Mr. Hartley in a line. She held out her hand to him. He took her fingertips, quite properly, but his hand felt hot on hers.

Emeline cleared her throat. She raised their joined hands to shoulder height and faced forward. “Very well.” She pointed her right toe. “We begin on three. One and two and three.”

For the next quarter hour, they practiced various dance steps together. Mr. Hartley sometimes partnered his sister, sometimes her. And Emeline, though she would never have admitted it even if put on the rack, rather enjoyed herself. She was amazed that such a big man could be so light and graceful on his feet.

Then somehow, Rebecca made a false step, and she and her brother ended up tangled. He caught his sister about the waist as Emeline hastily stepped away from the mess. “Careful there, Becca, or you’ll have your partner on the floor.”

“Oh, I’m terrible at this!” the younger girl cried. “It isn’t fair! You never danced this way as a boy and yet you can follow the steps.”

Emeline looked between brother and sister. “In what way did Mr. Hartley dance as a boy?”

“Badly,” he said.

While at the same time his sister said, “He jigged.”

“Jigged?” Emeline tried to imagine Mr. Hartley’s tall form bouncing up and down in a country jig.

“The peasants about the château where I grew up used to dance so,” Tante remarked.

“I would like to see you jig,” Emeline mused.

Mr. Hartley shot her an ironic look. Emeline smiled back. For a moment, their gazes were locked and she couldn’t quite discern the look in his brown eyes.

“He was wonderfully fast,” Rebecca said, warming to her theme. “But then he got old and stiff, and he doesn’t jig anymore.”

Mr. Hartley broke eye contact with Emeline to mock frown at his sister. “A challenge if I ever heard one.”

He took off his coat and, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, struck a pose, hands on hips, head held high.

“You’ll really do it?” Rebecca was laughing openly now.

He sighed theatrically. “If you’ll keep time.”

Rebecca began clapping and Mr. Hartley leapt. Emeline had seen men jig before—peasants celebrating or sailors on shore leave from their ships. Usually such dancing was characterized by the clumsiness of the movements, legs and heels kicking everywhere, hair and clothing flying in the air like a puppet on a string. But when Mr. Hartley jigged, it was different. He was contained, for one thing, his movements precise and intentioned. And he was graceful. It was extraordinary. He was jumping about, his moccasined feet stomping on the parquet floor, and yet somehow he contrived to be graceful and quick. He grinned at her, a wholly joyful look, his strong, white teeth flashing against his brown skin. Emeline clapped to the beat along with everyone else, including Tante.