Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(63)

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’m worried that we’ve been attacked twice now. On the one hand, it must mean I’m getting closer to Marie’s murderer. On the other, I don’t wish to put you at risk. I must think on the matter and decide how best to make further inquiries.”

Temperance looked down, smoothing her hand down the lovely turquoise gown. She’d never felt material so fine and had gasped when she’d seen her reflection in the little mirror in her room. Caire seemed so cynical, but in many ways his actions were thoughtful. She took a breath. “Did you love her?”

He stopped, but she didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

“I’ve never loved anyone,” he said.

That made her look up. He was staring ahead stiffly. “No one?”

He shook his head. “Not since Annelise died.”

Her heart contracted at the admission. How could one go through life without love at all? “But you’ve spent months searching for Marie’s killer,” she said softly. “She must have meant something to you.”

“Perhaps I search because she should have meant something. Because I should’ve loved her.” He grimaced. “Perhaps I’m chasing a will-o’-the-wisp of phantom emotion. Perhaps I’m merely fooling myself.”

She had an urge to take him into her arms, to comfort this cold, isolated man. But they stood in a crowded ballroom. Instead, she squeezed his arm. The contact might cause him pain, but no man could survive without another’s touch, not even he.

They stopped at the side of the dance floor, and she watched as the beautiful figures moved past. Lady Hero, the sister of the Duke of Wakefield, was a striking figure in a silver tissue gown.

“Would you like to dance?” Caire asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know how.”

He angled a glance down at her. “Truly?”

“There isn’t much call for it in a foundling home.”

“Come.” He began towing her again.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Not to a dark room, I assure you.”

They reached the back of the ballroom, where a double door stood cracked to let in some of the chill night air. Caire pushed through them and drew her out onto a long balcony that ran the length of the back of the house.

“Now, then.” Caire stood next to her and raised their joined hands.

“Oh.” She suddenly realized what he was going to do. “Not here.”

“Why not here?” he asked. “No one is about.”

That was true. The night was too cold for others to be out on the balcony.

She bit her lip, feeling foolish that she’d never learned to dance when everyone else at the ball could dance as well as they could breathe. “But…”

He smiled at her suddenly, handsome and wicked. “Are you afraid I’ll see how clumsy you are?”

She stuck out her tongue at him.

“Careful,” he said low, though the smile still played around his lips. “I might abandon this lesson for one far more to my taste.”

Her eyes widened, unsure how to take his teasing tone.

“Come, it’s not so very hard.”

His voice was gentle now—and he was far too perceptive.

She inhaled, looking away from him, touched by his tenderness.

He took her hand. “The main thing is to always look as if you have a poker up your”—he cast a sideways glance at her—“er, back. Watch.”

And he patiently demonstrated the steps to the dance, coaching her to follow him as the music floated through the open balcony doors. Temperance studied his graceful movements, trying to imitate them, but what seemed inborn to him was a confusing series of steps to her.

“Oh, I shall never be able to do this,” she exclaimed after several minutes.

“So dramatic,” he murmured. “You’re doing quite well, I think.”

“But I keep confusing the steps,” she said. “You make it seem so natural.”

“It is natural—to me,” he said flatly. “I spent hours upon hours practicing these steps as a boy. If I misstepped, my dance master had a cane he would bring down on the back of my calves. I learned quickly not to misstep.”

“Oh,” she said rather inadequately.

His world was so different from hers. While she’d been learning to cook, mend, and pinch pennies as a child, he’d learned to master these silly, intricate steps. She pictured him, a proud little boy, dancing all by himself in a large, elegant ballroom, his only company a cruel dance master.

She shivered.

His brows knit. “You’re cold. Let’s go in.”

She nodded gratefully.

They stepped back into the ballroom, which seemed more crowded than ever.

“Would you like some punch?” Caire asked.

Temperance nodded again. He found an empty chair for her near a huge vase of flowers, and she sat while he went off in search of refreshment. The hour was growing late now, the scent of half-burned candles pervading the room. Temperance saw several ladies employ their fans and wished rather wistfully for one of her own. Then she was chiding herself for wanting more when Caire had already given her so much for this night. Perhaps he was right: perhaps no matter how much a person had, they could still be unhappy.