“Where did you learn to dance?” he asked.
“At school,” she said. “We had a French dancing master. The girls used to laugh at him because he liked to wave his arms about, a handkerchief always in one hand. And he was more dainty on his feet than any of us.” She smiled at the memories. “But he could dance! I have always loved to dance. I have always loved to express music, whether with my fingers on a keyboard or with my feet on a dance floor.”
“You do both well,” he said.
“Sometimes …” She was looking across the water to the back of the pavilion and to the shimmering reflections of hundreds of lanterns. “Sometimes I think that without music, life would have no sweetness or beauty at all.”
The waltz music coming from the pavilion was part of the night and the beauty and the hope. She had forgotten her fear, forgotten her companion for the moment.
“Let’s dance here,” he said quietly, and she was brought jolting back to reality as she spun to face him. He had stopped walking. His left hand was extended to take hers. His face was in darkness, the row of lanterns behind him.
Her right arm felt like a leaden weight as she lifted it and placed her hand in his. She swallowed as she watched and felt his fingers close about it and she felt her heart thump painfully against her ribs and her eardrums. He set his other hand behind her waist, firm and warm. She lifted her left hand to his shoulder, broad and firmly muscled as she remembered it.
She closed her eyes as they danced, slowly at first. And she felt the rhythm of the music and gave herself up to it. The man she danced with led well. He was one with the music and took her into the flow of it and whirled her about, his hand firm at her waist so that at one moment the tips of her breasts brushed against his coat. She would not remember until it was over with whom she danced, who had become a part of the music with her.
But they had walked for several minutes before dancing. There was not a great deal of the music left. It ended finally and far too soon.
“You have music in your very soul, I believe, Fleur Hamilton,” a deep and quiet voice said.
And she was aware again of the hand clasping her own and the other spread at her back. She was aware again of the broad shoulder beneath her other hand and of the warmth and smell of him. She opened her eyes and took a step backward, dropping her arms to her sides.
“It is quicker to go back than to walk all about the lake,” he said. “Shall we return? Are you hungry?”
“No,” she said. “Thank you, your grace.”
“I understand that you took Pamela to visit the Chamberlains,” he said. “That was kind of you. She sees so little of other children.”
“I believe she enjoyed the outing, your grace,” she said.
“I’m sure she did,” he said. “You have danced with Chamberlain a number of times tonight. I believe he is taken with you.”
Fleur turned icy cold. But he did not need to warn her. She was quite capable of doing that for herself.
“He has been kind,” she said, “as have several other gentlemen, your grace.”
“Kind,” he said. “Yes. Miss Chamberlain is at the punch bowl, I see. Would you care to join her?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
A minute later, when she stood beside Emily Chamberlain and the duke had wandered away, she found herself forced to smile at the footman behind the punch bowl and assure him that she was not thirsty, though indeed she was. Her hands, she feared, were shaking too badly to reach out for a glass.
“Is it not a glorious evening, Miss Hamilton?” her companion said. “I am so glad that the weather has held for the occasion.”
THE DUKE OF RIDGEWAY HAD MADE SOMETHING of a habit since his return home of spending part of his mornings in the schoolroom, quietly observing the lessons there. Very often he would take Pamela afterward to the stables to play with her puppy before luncheon. Fleur had forced herself to accept the situation.
There were no classes the morning after the ball, Lady Pamela having had a late night. In the afternoon, Fleur took the child along the upper corridor before going into the schoolroom, showing her the paintings, pointing out a few important details. On the whole, though, she just hoped that Lady Pamela would absorb the beauty and perfection of the paintings without being burdened with too much technical detail, and want to try harder at her own. She had an eye for form and color, though a natural impatience of temperament always made her rush too much when she painted.
The duke appeared at the top of the staircase and walked toward them before they were finished. Fleur sighed inwardly. She had hoped to avoid seeing him at all that day—her grace and most of the guests, she knew, had gone outside strolling in the park. She hated to remember her encounter with him the night before—her terror as she walked with him along the deserted path, her feeling of nausea when she had been forced to touch him and allow him to touch her, the strange and unexpected magic of waltzing with him on the path, her eyes tightly closed, shutting out the knowledge that it was with him she danced.