Free Simply Unforgettable by Mary Balogh Page B

eyebrows.
    â€œThis.” She placed her palm against his and curled her fingers in between his thumb and forefinger even as his own fingers closed over the back of her hand.
    Her shawl, she suddenly felt, had been quite an unnecessary addition even though the air she was inhaling was chilly. She was terribly aware that his broad chest, encased behind his expertly tailored coat and the pristine shirt and elegantly tied neckcloth, was only inches away from her bosom. And that his face was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.
    Her eyes were locked with his.
    It was no wonder some people still considered the waltz an improper dance. It had felt nothing like this at the school. And they had not even
started
it yet.
    â€œThe music, ma’am?” His voice was low, even husky.
    â€œOh, dear,” she said. Was she going to have breath enough for this?
    But she had had experience singing when she was nervous. Not
this
type of nervousness, it was true, but even so . . . It was a matter of breathing from deep in the diaphragm, where the air could be stored and released gradually, instead of from the throat, from which the nerves would expel it all in one breathy
whoosh
.
    Now if she could just think of a waltz tune. If she could just think of
any
tune—other than a William Byrd madrigal, that was.
    She closed her eyes, breaking at least some of the tension, and remembered the rhythm and the pleasure of waltzing with Mr. Huckerby, who was a very good dancer even if he
was
rather a fussy man and even if he
did
always smell strongly of lilies of the valley.
    She hummed softly to herself for a few moments, and then she opened her eyes, smiled at Mr. Marshall, and hummed more loudly and firmly, emphasizing the first beat of each measure.
    His right hand tapped the rhythm lightly against her back and then tightened slightly as he led her off into the steps of the waltz—small, tentative steps at first and then gaining in confidence, until after a minute or so they were moving with long, firm, rhythmic steps and twirling about until she could have sworn there were a dozen candles instead of just three.
    She laughed.
    So did he.
    And then, of course, they came to grief because she had stopped humming for a moment.
    She started again.
    It soon became clear to her that when he had said he had limited experience with the waltz, he must have been talking in relative terms—or lying outright, which was more probable. He knew the dance very well indeed. More than that, he had a feel for the rhythm and the grace of it, his left hand holding hers high in a strong clasp, his right hand splayed against the arch of her back, leading her with such assured command into intricate little twirls and wider whirls that she felt as if her feet moved almost of their own volition, and as if they scarcely touched the wooden floor.
    Their dance could not have been more exhilarating, she thought, even if it had been performed in a warmed, brightly lit Assembly Room full of people glittering in their evening array and with a full orchestra to provide the music.
    By the time the tune came to an end, she was breathless. She was also fully aware that she was flushed and that she was smiling and happy and sorry the dance was over. His eyes glinted with a strange light and gazed very directly back into her own. His lips were pressed tightly together, making his jaw look very square and masterful.
    She could feel his body heat and smell his very masculine cologne.
    â€œNow,” he said, “you may no longer say that you did not attend an assembly over the Christmas season or that you did not dance. Or waltz.”
    â€œWhat?” she said. “I may no longer wallow in self-pity?”
    â€œNot,” he said, “unless I did not measure up to the standard of the dancing master.”
    â€œOh,” she assured him, “you far surpass Mr. Huckerby.”
    â€œFlattery,” he said, both eyebrows arching