Where Dreams Begin(45)

Not looking at him, she reached for his hand once more. Their bare fingers clasped for a brief, electric moment, and she guided him through the change steps.

“It's been so long,” he heard her say in near-whisper. “I've almost forgotten how to do this.”

“You haven't danced since George?” he asked.

She shook her head in wordless response.

This was his particular idea of hell, Zachary reflected silently, his mind and body on fire as the lesson on marching proceeded. He was grateful for the fashionably long hem of his coat that draped over the front of his trousers. If Holly had any inkling of how aroused he was, how close he was to crushing her against him and defiling her with his hands, mouth and every conceivable part of his body, she would probably run screaming from the ballroom.

However, the march wasn't nearly as bad as the quadrille, a tedious pattern of glissades and chassés, and all manner of foppish footwork. And the waltz turned out to be the most excruciating torment man—or woman—had ever devised.

“Stand just a little to my right,” Holly said, her thick lashes lowering over her eyes, “and put your right arm around my waist. Firmly, but not too tightly.”

“Like this?” Carefully Zachary fitted his arm around the neat curve of her waist, feeling unaccountably awkward. He, of all men, was well accustomed to holding a woman in his arms, but this experience was different from all others. He had never touched someone as fine as she, had never wanted so keenly to please a woman. For once her emotions were difficult to read, and he wondered if she disliked being so close to him. After all, she had been used to dancing in the slim, elegant arms of aristocratic men, not brawny, low-bred bruisers like himself. His hands felt like big paws, his feet as large and heavy as carriage wheels.

Her left hand came to rest gently on his right shoulder. His tailor had stripped every bit of padding from the shoulder of his coat in an effort to make him appear smaller, but unfortunately nothing could conceal the brutish swell of muscle.

Holly took his left hand in her right…Her fingers felt dainty and crushable. She was so light and sweet in his arms that it caused a pang of yearning inside him. “The man guides his partner with this hand,” she said, her face upturned. “You mustn't hold my fingers too tightly…your grasp must be firm and steady, but gentle. And keep your arm just a bit rounded.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to step on you,” he muttered.

“Just concentrate on maintaining the proper distance between us. If you hold me too tightly, you'll restrict my freedom of movement. If we stand too far apart, however, I won've have sufficient support.”

“I don't think I can do this,” Zachary said thickly. “You've taught me how to do the march, and I can muddle through a quadrille. Let's leave things at that.”

“Oh, but you must learn to waltz,” she coaxed. “You'll never be able to court a girl properly if you can't waltz.”

His succinct reply caused her to frown in sudden determination.

“Utter all the obscenities you like, Mr. Bronson. Nothing will deter me from teaching you to waltz. And if you prove to be uncooperative, I will send for Monsieur Girouard.”

The threat of the dancing master caused his scowl to deepen. “All right, dammit. What do I do next?”

“A waltz is composed of two steps, each lasting three beats. Now glide backward with your left foot—a little step, mind you—then draw the right foot back a bit beyond the left and turn toward the right…”

To say the least, it was a struggle at first. However, as Zachary concentrated on Holly's instructions and felt her glide with him in seemingly magical conformity, his lumbering steps became a bit more assured. It helped that she moved with him so easily, turning with the slightest pressure of his hand. It helped also that she seemed to be herself, although he couldn't fathom why she should like to stumble through a waltz with him.

“Keep your arm steady,” she warned, her eyes sparkling as she stared into his set face. “You're moving it like a pump handle.”

As she had probably intended, the comment distracted him from counting. He raised one brow in a sardonic glance that usually withered the recipient. “All I can concentrate on at the moment, my lady, is trying not to maim you with one misplaced step.”

“You're doing very well, actually,” she said. “Don't tell me you've never tried to waltz before.”

“Never.”

“You're surprisingly agile. Most beginners rest too much of their weight on their heels.”

“Boxing,” Zachary said, pulling her in another half-turn. “If you have lead feet in the rope ring, there's no way to duck and dodge.”

Although he had not intended the comment to be amusing, Holly seemed to be greatly entertained. “I wouldn't suggest applying too many of your pugilistic skills to our dance lesson, Mr. Bronson. I should dislike to find myself engaged in fisticuffs with you.”

Staring into her smiling, rosy-cheeked face, Zachary experienced a painfully sweet sensation, an ache that had less to do with the body than the spirit. She was the most adorable woman he had ever known. Not for the first time, he felt acute envy for George Taylor for having been loved by her. For having the right to touch and kiss her whenever he had wanted. For having had her turn to him for all of her needs. For being loved by her still.