She fixed the girls with a grim look to drive home her point.
“However,” Miss Dalrymple continued, “it has become so popular that a young lady cannot be considered ready to enter society unless she can waltz. Therefore, we will learn the steps. But remember that I expect you to execute them with the utmost grace and dignity, staying always an arm’s length from your partner and engaging in only quiet, refined conversation. And do not forget that you must never dance more than two waltzes with the same gentleman in one evening unless he is your fiancé or husband. And if you should be so fortunate as to receive a voucher for Almack’s”—the downward turn of the governess’s mouth clearly expressed her own doubts regarding the matter—“you must not waltz until one of the patronesses has given you permission and presented you with a suitable partner.”
“That sounds excessively silly,” Camellia told her.
Miss Dalrymple’s face pursed up as if she had bitten into a lemon, but Sir Royce forestalled her reply by saying, “Yes, isn’t it? However, Miss Dalrymple is quite correct. The patronesses at Almack’s can make or break a young woman entering society. The place is deadly dull, and the food is barely adequate; Lady Jersey runs it like a martinet. Yet nothing is as highly valued as a voucher to Almack’s.”
As was usually the case, Mary’s sisters, even Camellia, were quick to accept Sir Royce’s word as law, and they promised solemnly that they would not ruin their social futures by waltzing at Almack’s without permission.
When Royce took Mary into his arms to demonstrate the waltz, she realized at once why the dance had been considered scandalous. “Arm’s length” seemed entirely too close. Forced to look up into his face, she could feel the heat from his body, smell the scent of his shaving soap and cologne. Her hand was cupped in his, and his other hand rested on her waist. It was as near as she could come to being held by him in public. Her cheeks pinkened with embarrassment. What if her feelings were written on her face?
Something flickered in Royce’s eyes—a momentary mirroring, perhaps, of her own thoughts—but was quickly gone. His expression became aloof, the smile vanishing. His voice and look were impersonal as he guided her into the steps of the dance, and Mary frowned at him in irritation. Her annoyance made her forget her embarrassment, however, and it was easier to follow the steps. By her second time around the floor, she was able to relax and follow him almost naturally.#p#分页标题#e#
“There, that’s better,” he said in a low tone.
“I beg your pardon?” Mary set her face in the expression Miss Dalrymple had been urging on them for days as the correct response for dampening pretensions. Mary was not entirely sure what constituted “pretensions,” but she decided that Royce’s attitude of indifference was reason enough to make the face.
“Well done,” he murmured. “If you can respond to a compliment in that fashion and dance the waltz without a misstep, you are practically assured of success.”
“Don’t be absurd. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I certainly recall no compliment.”
“I expressed approval because you had stopped thinking about yourself and were simply enjoying the dance.”
“I wasn’t enjoying it.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Then we must continue to practice until you do.”
“And I cannot imagine why you thought I was thinking about myself.”
“I could see it on your face. I fear you will have to learn to school your expression if you hope to make it through the choppy waters of the ton.” He leaned closer and murmured, “I could see, for instance, that when I put my hand on your waist, you were thinking of the other night.”
Heat flooded Mary’s cheeks and she would have stumbled, but his grip tightened and kept her moving through the steps with only a minor stutter.
“You think entirely too much of yourself,” she retorted.
“No doubt. Still, I know that is where your thoughts were. Mine were as well.”
“Indeed? You looked as if you scarcely knew me.”
He chuckled. “Would you have had me leer at you? I think that would hardly have helped you through the dance.”
“Of course not. You are talking nonsense.”
“Am I?” His eyes glinted down at her, and Mary could feel a familiar and most unwelcome heat stealing through her body.
With a grimace, she pulled away from him. Miss Dalrymple, who had been pounding out the waltz beat with her palm on the piano top, stopped and glared at Mary.