Page 7 of Sensibly Wed

“The waltz.”

“By ourselves?”

“It can be done without a room full of people.”

“And the music?”

“I needn’t any. Just follow the moves that you evidently know well.” He took my hand and led me in a promenade about the small rug before the fire, then moved into the following motions, pretending that other couples danced the set with us. “What do you have in this?” he asked, nodding to the reticule that dangled heavily from my wrist.

“A weapon in case a strange man asks to dance with me alone in the library.”

“It is a book, is it not?”

How did he know that? His smile was evidence that my surprise had given me away.

We continued to move through the motions of the dance until we found ourselves before the fire, our hands raised above our heads, our other hands around the others’ waist. It was with great dismay that my heart beat quickly and my cheeks grew flushed—though I didn’t at all feel faint. I was enjoying this ridiculous demonstration.

But if we were in public, among the other couples the dance normally included and the crowd of spectators, I would not be enjoying it at all. My hands would grow increasingly clammy, my heart slamming against my breastbone, my breath shallow and head faint. It was the same every time, without fail. I did not dance because I would faint. Nearly every time. I could not help the biological reaction so much avid attention caused any more than I could help growing hungry on an empty stomach or sleepy after a late night.

He looked down at me, holding the position, and my heart raced. “Do you dare say that you are not enjoying this dance?”

I could not speak the truth of things now—it would require that I obtain an introduction and dance with him in public. If his earlier flirtation at the refreshment table was any clue, the man was something of a flirt. I did not wish to fall into his trap, and I certainly did not wish to faint this evening in the center of a crowded ballroom, particularly during such a crush.

And there was a niggling at the back of my mind that reminded me that this was not my Mr. Bradwell. Any of the sweet flirtations this man tossed at me were cheap in comparison to the depth of connection I shared with Mr. Bradwell last summer.

There was nothing else for it. I had to lie.

I swallowed, nervous that he would discern the tremor in my voice. “Actually, I—”

The door swung open, and a volley of feminine laughter filtered into the room. His hands tightened on impact, and then we sprang apart, but not before the women who entered the library stopped in the doorway and stared, the light from the corridor bleeding in and washing over us. Mrs. Hutton paused, her hand moving to rest on her chest, and the two women behind her gasped.

Oh, dear. This could not be good.

“Godmother,” the man said. He stepped back again to put more space between us and cleared his throat.

“What is the meaning of this, James?” Mrs. Hutton demanded.

James. It was such a fitting name for the man, strong and sturdy. He looked at me, then back at the women. “It is not what it appears.”

“Indeed,” I said, my voice small and nervous. “He was only teaching me to dance.” To enjoy dancing, specifically, but I needn’t be that explicit.

One of the women in the back scoffed quietly, and I cursed her silently. She was not being unreasonable. Had I walked in a darkened room and found two people seemingly in an embrace, I would have jumped to conclusions as well. But I hated her reaction all the same. The other two women slipped away, leaving us alone with Mrs. Hutton.

“Come, Miss Thurston,” she said to me. “We must retrieve your parents.”

“It is only my mother,” I corrected. “Father could not make it this evening.”

Mrs. Hutton narrowed her eyes at James, then nodded at me. “Come.”

I left the room obediently, casting a look at James over my shoulder when I reached the doorway. Surely there would be no dire consequences. The three women could keep this to themselves. If they cared at all for either of us—and it was clear Mrs. Hutton cared for James—then they would desire to keep this secret.

James’s eyebrows were drawn, his expression uneasy. If he had the same fears I did, he certainly did not hold the same hope. He looked like a man awaiting conviction.

But he was innocent. And I would prove it.