Page 46 of My Darling Mr. Darling

Did she surrender to the urging of that wicked, crafty voice, this time she would have to shoulder the consequences—a frightening prospect, indeed. And so she had stewed in her indecision, vacillating this way and that, as she found herself torn between reckless desire and good sense, uncertain which would win out in the end.

Six classes had come and gone since she had begun conducting ballroom etiquette lessons, and it had swiftly become clear that whatever previous instruction in the fine art of dance her students had received prior to their enrollment had not been nearly enough. They were none of them particularly graceful dancers, and had clearly received little more tutelage than was necessary to eke out a simple quadrille. Country reels were a nigh impossibility, and the waltz was simply worlds beyond their meager abilities—a fact whose proof lay in her aching toes, which had been stepped upon so frequently that she had given up her thin slippers and donned thick leather boots today. The maids—whose help she had enlisted to partner the gentlemen—had learned more of a single evening’s instruction than had her students, and she had begun to suspect that they were likely mere hours from resigning their positionsen masseowing to the mistreatment their poor toes had received.

In fact, the only proficient dancer among her small class was John—for whose attention she suspected the maids had begun to draw straws, and with whom Violet had not danced even once, though she had partnered each of her other students at one point or another.

John was hardly unaware of her avoidance. Even now, as he whirled the downstairs maid, Elizabeth, through a flawless—if uninspired—waltz, his gaze found hers, carrying the sting of accusation.

Coward, it said, entirely without words, and as much as Violet resented the implication, it held at least a kernel of truth within it.

She had told herself that she hadn’t bothered because it was apparent enough that he would require much less attention than her other students. He never laughed too loudly, or yammered on about his business interests, or trespassed too close to the terrace doors. He remembered to conduct his partner back to her chair, or to Violet when she took the opportunity to survey the class from a distance and act instead in the position of chaperone. He’d even offered to fetch refreshments for his partners, which had elicited glows of pleasure from each of the maids that he had partnered, to find themselves treated like true ladies of quality.

But truly, Violetwasa coward. Perhaps she had never attended a ball in truth, but she was not ignorant of the purpose of them. Far beyond mere social gatherings—places to meet and mingle with one’s social equals—they were places of courtship. Dancing was far more than simply moving through the rote repetition of predetermined steps; it wasflirtation. For most young ladies, what they might glean from their partner on the dance floor was the closest they would get to a private conversation with a suitor before they married.

Her class had been instructed to be at their most charming. And while some—Mr. Mitchell in particular—fell somewhat short of the mark, certainly John was familiar enough withTonetiquette to meet expectations.

Which put Violet in a troublesome position. What if hewascharming? What if she found that shelikedhim? Every time she caught his gaze, her mind wanted to wander back toThe Kiss. It happened with alarming frequency, and each time that voice in her head seemed just the tiniest bit more reasonable. Each time, her good sense receded just a little bit more, her caution smothering beneath the oppressive weight of curiosity, of purely carnal interest.

Wherewasthe harm in kissing her husband, after all? The more the thought floated about in her head, the harder it became to see it.

∞∞∞

John had never taken himself for a particularly jealous man, but enough wasenough. He had quite simply reached the end of his patience with Violet’s deliberate avoidance, with the manner in which her eyes shied away from his whenever they happened to land upon her.

He could not abide the way Mr. Green tended to hold her just a fraction too closely, or her sweet laughter at Mr. Simmons’ jests, or the pleasant smiles she cast to every other man when they had done something to please her—everyone excepthim. Even Mitchell—that odious, ill-manneredAmerican—had been upon the receiving end of a smile a time or two.

At first he had thought he had offended her somehow; that she had been sending a subtle message that he had displeased her. Either with his kiss, or his conversation—that perhaps she had, given an opportunity to reflect, decided to distance herself once more. He had learned well enough that vulnerability was not something which came easily to her, and she had expressed more of it when she had come to dinner than he had ever expected.

Perhaps more thanshehad ever expected.

But Violet had all the subtlety of an exploding mortar shell—if he had offended her, she would have told him in no uncertain terms, flayed his skin clean from his bones with her rapier tongue and acerbic wit.

No. Violet was merely a coward. Too craven to risk dancing with him—and so she danced with every other man, likely without the slightest inkling of the irritation she had roused in him by ceding the space that belonged rightfully to him instead to every other man in turn.

Six classes he’d waited. Nearly two weeks he’d held his tongue and his temper both. He had thought they had reached some sort of understanding, perhaps a tenuous truce…but apparently he’d misunderstood their understanding.

Clearly, it was time to come to anewunderstanding. With time winding down until Violet would inevitably announce the conclusion to lessons for the day and the likelihood dwindling that she would ever work up the will to partner him of her own free will, John took matters into his own hands when the music drew down to its final chords.

He returned his partner—Lottie, the scullery maid, who had been justdelightedto dance—to her chair, and waited as Mr. Collins escorted Violet toward him. He saw the moment she realized his intention, saw the brief flicker of panic slide over her features before she tamped it down and firmed her chin in challenge.

He watched her eyes dart toward the longcase clock, saw the disappointment sweep over her as she realized that there was still time enough for a dance, watched her wrestle with the thought of concluding the class early anyway—and still he had plenty of time to seize control before she could open her mouth.

“Mrs. Bellwether, may I suggest a waltz?” John inquired, though his gaze did not stray from Violet. “It’s my dance, I believe.” He gave her his best bow, which would have earned high praise if it had come from any of the other gentlemen.

There was a peculiar kind of satisfaction in knowing that she could not refuse. She’d drummed enough ballroom etiquette into them over the past few days to realize the folly of that—a lady did not refuse a dance unless she was otherwise engaged for a set. And by the tight set of her jaw and the way her eyes sparked frosty fire at him, he could see that she’d recognized how well he had positioned her into a figurative corner.

She set her hand in his, silently fuming, and it was the most fun John had had in the past few days to lead her back onto the floor. Still, he strove to keep the smile from his face as the others took their places and Mrs. Bellwether shuffled through her sheet music for a waltz that she hadn’t played at least a dozen times already.

At last the opening chords of the music began, and just as Violet moved into the steps at the gentle direction of his hand...John planted his foot firmly upon the hem of her skirt. Violet made a startled sound in her throat as she stumbled, although of course John had her balanced well enough that she did not fall.

“You did that on purpose,” Violet accused between clenched teeth as she collected herself once more, struggling to catch up the rhythm of the dance.

“I defy you to prove it,” John replied. “But could you truly blame me if I had?”

“Yes,” Violet seethed, her lips arranged into a smile so sharp it could have cut glass as Mr. Green cast them a curious glance from John’s right. And then she took the opportunity of a turn to jam her heel down upon John’s toes.

He suppressed a grunt of pain. “Are you wearingboots?”

“With the tendency of some to step on my toes, I thought it best,” she hissed back, narrowly avoiding losing her glove to the fierce grip of his fingers.