Page 47 of My Darling Mr. Darling

“Who steps on your toes?” John inquired, dodging a subtle jab to his side. He suspected she could do rather a lot of damage with that bony elbow, if she put her mind to it—and given the shrewish snip of her words, he wasn’t certain she would have held back.

“Every gentleman present. That’s the damned problem. You’re the only one who—ugh.” She swallowed back a snarl as he trod once more upon her hem, sending her stumbling toward him. “The only one who is even remotely proficient,” she concluded in a whisper, and this time she caught him with her elbow straight in the solar plexus and John fought to remain upright when the whole of his breath wanted to desert him.

“Yes, well,” he said, his words hardly more than a wheeze, “If being a poor dancer is what is required to gain just a little of your attention, then so be it.” On the next whirl, he stomped once more on the hem of her gown with purpose, and this time Violet bit back a shriek—the muffled whimper that emerged barely audible above the unmistakable sound of a seam stretching and splitting open.

The music paused; one last, awkward chord rolling out into the ensuing silence. Movement ceased, several relieved sighs issuing forth from the maids present, as they realized that the dance would go unfinished and their toes would be spared any further torment.

Mr. Green coughed into his fist. “Miss Townsend,” he murmured. “I, ah—yourgown.” His gaze flicked down and away respectfully.

As Violet glanced down to see the damage—where the seam had torn open just beneath her breasts, gaping open to reveal the thin linen shift beneath, John could sense the fury rising up in her like a great crashing wave. Her jaw tightened so severely that the smile she swiftly pasted on her face looked a trifle deranged.

“Not to worry, Mr. Green,” she said, in a voice of boundless serenity, entirely at odds with her jerky movements as she laid the flat of her hand over the damaged portion of her gown in deference to modesty. “Mr. Darling is simply…not quite as proficient at the waltz as some.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but from the very corner of her eye, Violet shot him a look so scathing, so virulent, that it suggested she might slay him where he stood if he made so much as a single sound in his own defense, and his jaw snapped shut of its own accord.

And if anyone knew how to properly dispose of a body, it would be Grey. Serena certainly wouldn’t wish to see her friend hanged for murder, and Grey was so hopelessly in love with the termagant he was unfortunate enough to callwifethat he’d toss John’s lifeless corpse straight into the Thames himself, did she ask it of him.

“Gentlemen,” Violet said, and how her voice had maintained that perfectly composed tenor, John could not guess. “I regret to say that I must conclude lessons a few minutes early, given my…regrettable dishabille.” She glanced toward the butler who lurked in the hallway just beyond the door, and something indefinable passed between the two of them. “You’ll forgive me if I have Davis see you out, I’m certain.”

It was a clear dismissal, and the maids skittered out ahead of the gentlemen, but as John turned to go, certain that he had been excused along with the rest of them, Violet’s clear voice rang out in stern tones of disapproval, “Not you, Mr. Darling,” and it brooked no dissent.

Mitchell released a long, low whistle as he slipped through the door, the sort of taunting, juvenile sound that a boy at school would have made over a despised schoolmate being called down to the headmaster’s office. Though it rankled—raking across every last one of John’s frayed nerves—he supposed he’d rather have Mitchell assume him to be a poor dancer than to learn he’d waged a petty war with Violet right in the midst of her class.

Probably she had called him back simply to give him the dressing-down he so richly deserved.

He supposed he ought to apologize, because she was still glaring in that singular way she had—as if she could peer straight into his soul and see all of his sins. But he couldn’t make the words come. Likely because he wasn’t even the tiniest bit sorry.

A few moments later, Davis cleared his throat from the doorway, leveling a threatening look at John even as he addressed Violet. “They’ve all gone, Miss Violet.”

“Thank you, Davis. That will be all,” Violet said, and though Davis pulled a scowl that made his brows jam together in one thick, reproving line, and muttered something beneath his breath, he gave a bow and retreated through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Alone. They werealone.

She trulywasgoing to murder him.

Her brows were furious slashes over stormy eyes; the heels of her boots clicked out an ominous rhythm as she walked toward him, each footfall a threat in itself.

“You tore my gown,” she accused in a seething whisper, her hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically, knuckles whitening as she no doubt imagined wrapping her fingers around his throat and squeezing the life out of him. Deep in her throat, she made a strange, awkward sound, like a snarl that had slipped right past the tight clamp of her teeth, despite her efforts to choke it back down.

“I’m not sorry,” he returned, though he’d doubtless just signed his own death warrant. He was every bit as angry as she, and with just as much a right to it.Daysshe had ignored him, as if he merited no more consideration than any other of her students. Her damnedhusband! It was not to be borne.

But just as he opened his mouth to tell her so, she lunged—lunged!—across the scant space remaining between them. He had only a fraction of a second to brace himself, and still the weight of Violet’s body sent him stumbling back a few steps as she slammed into him. His shoulders knocked against the wall just as her hands wrapped around his neck.

Not strangling.Pulling. Her fingers linked behind his head, and she shoved herself up on the very tips of her toes, boots squeaking in protest across the freshly-polished floor as she jammed her mouth over his. It wasn’t a snarl she’d been choking back—it was laughter, and it emerged at last, bright and effervescent, between frantic, hungry kisses.

They were more enthusiasm than art, but he could find no particular fault when she nibbled his lower lip so ardently. That horrid little bubble of anger and jealousy that had been growing in his chest for the past several days popped and evaporated, as if it had never existed at all. After all, he doubted that she could ever have been induced to throw herself at any of her other pupils.

“I thought you were angry,” he said, wrapping his arms about her waist as her fingers tangled in his hair, her breasts pressed tightly to his chest.

“Oh,furious,” she said on a little hum, a last remnant of laughter lingering in her throat. “You ruined my dress.”

“You deserved it for ignoring me,” he said. “Andfor stepping on my toes.” They still ached; he could only imagine the torture her own toes had endured just lately. But the minor pain was distant in his mind when Violet was doing her damnedest to climb him like a tree; a pleasant—if difficult—endeavor, given that the skirts of her dress certainly had not been fashioned to accommodate such an activity.

She gasped as he levered himself away from the wall and turned them, reversing their positions. Letting one hand fall away from his hair, she grabbed up a great fistful of her skirt. With just one hand with which to brace herself, she could get only so much leverage, even with the wall at her back—until he lifted her, and her legs settled about his hips. God, but the way she fit against him was almost perfect. With just a tiny adjustment—he slid his hands up her thighs, cupped her bottom in his hands, tilted her hipsjust so, and—there.

She swallowed his groan, giving one of her own back to him as she dropped her skirt to drape over his arms, her fingers knotting in his hair once more.

It wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted her stretched out across his bed, her hair loose, breasts freed from the tight constriction of her bodice. He wanted her bare fingers on him, to feel the warmth, the softness, of her thighs as they cradled his hips. He wanted her in ways that he had never wanted any of his infrequent lovers. Uncivilized ways, ways that he would never have considered only a few months ago. Because she made him crazed at the best of times—and at the worst, juvenile and beastly by turns. Never before had he been even remotely tempted to pin a woman—anywoman—to a wall and have his way with her where anyone might stumble upon them. It was a kind of madness he’d never suspected lurked inside him, and it was impossible besides. Impossible in a house as crowded as this, in so public an area. Why, if Davis had the slightest inkling of what was presently occurring behind those doors he’d closed—