"In that case, you are a perfect partner for me," Peregrine said, his velvet voice coaxing. "I have had some instruction in European dancing, but have not yet dared my skills in public. Come, we can dance gracelessly together."
Before she could protest, he drew her into waltz position, his right hand at the waist of her turquoise silk gown, his other hand clasping hers, a correct twelve inches between them. As they began moving to the music, she said with amused resignation, "I can't believe that there is anything you don't dare."
"To dare is the last resort. I prefer arranging matters so that the outcome will not be in doubt."
Though the prince did not dance with the unthinking ease of long practice, he had been well taught and his natural physical grace compensated for minor flaws in technique. Sara could not say the same for herself. Though she tried to relax, she was rigid and awkward, convinced that disaster was just a step away.
Her fears were confirmed when she stumbled on a turn, her weak leg unequal to the sudden shift of weight. But instead of a humiliating fall, there was only a slight irregularity in their progress as the prince's strong clasp carried her through the moment of weakness. He smiled down at her. "Was that so bad?"
Sara did not answer out loud, just tilted her head back and laughed. Now she relaxed, her body soft and pliant as she yielded to his lead. When Peregrine had taken her up on his horse, he had freed her of the fear of pain. Now he was freeing her again, this time of the fear of making a fool of herself.
Why had she let pride prevent her from dancing? The risk of being thought clumsy was a small price to pay for this pleasure.
As they swirled across the flagstones, he said teasingly, "I'm disappointed in you, Lady Sara. I expected gracelessness. Instead your dancing is the equal of any other lady here."
"You were also flying false colors, Your Highness," she retorted, "for you could be giving lessons, not receiving them."
"Not quite, but I thank you for the compliment."
As they spun across the rectangles of light cast by the French windows, the sheer sensual pleasure of dancing filled Sara's being. In the months and years after her accident, she had done her best to detach her mind from her body as the only way to survive the endless pain. Now, in the joy of the waltz, her spirit and body were one again for the first time in a decade.
They had finished one dance and were halfway through the next before she became aware that another, more focused joy was growing inside her. She was intensely conscious of Peregrine's nearness. In spite of her gloves, she tingled where they touched. He was so strong, so attractive, so close....
Too close, the distance between them was less than half what it should be, at this rate she would soon be pressed against his broad chest. And shamelessly Sara wanted that to happen. She wanted to raise her face to his and discover if there was more to kissing than she had yet experienced, she wanted to feel his body moving against hers.
In the darkness her face flamed as she realized that once more she was falling under the spell of his compelling masculine presence. The man was dangerous, and he wasn't even trying to be. She stopped and released him. "I must catch my breath. I am unaccustomed to so much exertion."
She sat down on a stone bench by the railing and opened her fan, needing to cool her burning face. Her temperature problem was not helped when the prince sat down beside her. Though he was a respectable distance away, he was still too close for comfort, for she could feel the warmth of his body radiating through the cool evening air.
"Clearly dancing, like riding, is another activity that should be part of your life again," he remarked.
"I think you are right." Sara's smile was rueful. "You are an alarming person, Your Highness."
His glance was narrow-eyed. "Why do you say that?"
"Because you have the power to change lives, quickly and casually. Certainly you keep changing my life."
He shrugged fatalistically. "Life always changes, it just changes faster sometimes. Are you not to marry soon? If you do that, nothing in your life will be the same."
With a sudden shift of subject, Peregrine motioned toward her fan. "I have heard that ladies use these to communicate with gentlemen. Do you know how that is done?"
"The language of the fan?" Her mind flashed back to her school days, when an older girl had demonstrated the gestures to Sara and her best friend Juliet. "It originated in Spain, I think, where young men and women were much more strictly separated than here." Remembering the females who clustered around the prince, she added with a touch of dryness, "These days, there are easier ways to send a message, but perhaps there will be an occasion when you will need to understand some of the language. Let me see if I can remember any of it."