Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(36)

“She didn’t think I would ever have the occasion to practice the knowledge.”

“Not even when the Winthrops gave a ball?” Rand questioned, his eyes alight with an odd tenderness.

“Well . . . even Maman agreed with Lady Winthrop that it was not suitable for me to dance with any of the young men there. It might have encouraged them to . . . well, it might have encouraged me . . . so I stayed by Lady Winthrop and the dowagers who . . .” As she trailed off uncomfortably, it seemed to her that his hold on her tightened, and that during the next turn he urged her the slightest bit closer to him. “Imagine,” Rosalie resumed a trifle breathlessly, unable to keep from chattering, “if I had never gone to the theater with Maman that night, and you had attended one of the Winthrops’ balls, and I had seen you from afar, dancing with Elaine. We never would have met, but Elaine would have told me everything about you . . .” Silly as her prattle was, he appeared to consider it thoughtfully.

“I would not have been dancing with Elaine,” Rand said. “And I wouldn’t have let you sit with the dowagers.”

“Oh?”

“I would have found someone to make the necessary introductions and then made you waltz with me until your slippers were worn through.”

Rosalie giggled at the thought. “You wouldn’t have given me a second look,” she accused.

“Taking into consideration the fact that I avoid a gaggle of dowagers whenever possible, I might have taken an hour or two to notice you. But eventually I would have seen you in their midst from far across the room . . . and in one glance I would have drowned in a pair of great blue eyes,” Rand murmured. The low huskiness of his tone flustered her to no small degree, and Rosalie stared up at him, spellbound.

“I . . . I might have danced the quadrille with you,” she said, perhaps a little wistfully. Swallowing, she suddenly realized that it was imperative for her to break the mood before she melted in his arms, and her voice became brisker. “But I wouldn’t have waltzed with you, no matter how often you asked—”

“Wise girl.”

“—although I think all the criticism of such a harmless little dance is hardly well-deserved,” she finished in a sensible tone.

“Obviously you’ve never read Salamo Wolf.” “Who?”

“A German writer. Two years ago he published a best-selling pamphlet . . . the title was something like ‘Discussion of the Most Important Causes of die Weakness of Our Generation in Regard to the Waltz.’ ”

Rosalie laughed up at him. “You’re not serious.” “The sequel was even worse.”

“I fail to see what’s wrong with waltzing.” “Ah, now you’re daring me to show you.” “Show me,” she repeated in a challenging way. With a dazzling smile Rand accepted, for he was never above playing the rogue.

“The trick of it is all in the timing,” he said, his hand drawing slowly across her back and pulling her inexorably nearer. “This pace is slow, sedate appropriate for when dowagers and chaperons lend a watchful eye to the activity of their charges. But this . . . this is the French waltz.” Their steps became more theatrical, the half-turns became deep circles. Expertly Rand turned her in a pirouette with one hand, and Rosalie’s eyes widened slightly as he caught her again in his arms, this time so closely that she could feel the hard, smooth coordination of his thighs against her own, her soft br**sts pressing against his cbest. She dared not say a word, for their mouths were almost touching, and she felt the warm caress of his breath against her cheek. The dance echoed some ancient impulse buried deep within . . . the man to guide, the woman to follow, to submit. The momentum and the circles forced their bodies together, and as they moved together Rosalie felt herself become pliant and responsive to him, her insides tightening in an unfamiliar pulsing which she would recognize later as the beginning of desire.

Rand closed his eyes briefly, his control undermined by the clean, feminine scent of her skin, the waterfall of wondrous satin hair that flew around them, her soft body brushing against his, the closeness of a delicate earlobe which he longed to nip lightly with his teeth. “And this,” he said with difficulty against her temple, letting his lips press there almost unnoticeably, “is the Viennese waltz, the worst of them all.” He whirled her around the room so quickly that Rosalie had no time to breathe or think, crushed against him in an undignified but exhilarating madness, her skirts wrapping around his legs during each turn and then falling, clinging, falling, clinging . . . She began to giggle in dizzy jubilation, her very soul on fire as he laughed huskily in her ear, his arms firm around her. She was on the edge of a spiry precipice, yet he would not let her go. Finally he began to slow down and Rosalie clutched at his shoulders unsteadily, feeling as if she were drunk.

“Rand,” she said in the midst of her merriment, gasping for breath, “I’m going to fall—”

“I’ll catch you.”

He looked down at her in a way that he never had before. Rosalie’s smile vanished slowly as she realized that they were not dancing any longer and that he was still holding her. Carefully Rand stroked the curls away from her face, and with butterfly lightness brushed a kiss on her forehead. She stared at him in shock and extreme awareness. It had been a brotherly gesture, but he stared down at her not with the eyes of a family member, but of a lover.