“I want to,” he said softly. His expression turned wry. “And I am not equipped to take on the wrath of three old women.”
“Smart.”
“Is it very complicated?” Dougal flashed her a grin. “I’ll try not to step on your feet.”
“We start side by side,” Meg said as Lady Beatrice seated herself with a dramatic flourish.
She played a few notes before barking “This pianoforte is not as good as the one in our chambers.”
“Never mind, dear. I know you’re more than up to the task.”
“Well, of course, I am!”
Dougal bit back a chuckle. Meg tried not to look at him, fighting her own laughter. “This is serious.”
“Deadly.”
“Take my hand in yours.”
“Gladly.”
“Flirt.”
“I thought that was part of the lesson,” he said, innocently.
“Hmm.” She moved her left hand so that it was behind her back and his arm reached behind her.
“Now what?”
“We promenade for four steps.” Once they had done that, she added. “Now we turn to face each other. And the steps will be in three quarter time with the accent on the first beat. One, two, three. One, two, three.” She cleared her throat. Her body remembered exactly what he could do with those hands. “Right hand at each other’s waist.”
Their eyes met again. They were so close that she could see the ring of lighter blue around his irises, the grain of his beard where it had been shaved close to his jaw. This was why the waltz was so dangerous. It was a private moment, a public and yet clandestine pause where anything might be whispered. And frequently was.
“I could get used to this,” Dougal said, softly.
She had to swallow before continuing. He was filling up the space, she could see only him, smell the soap-and-cedar scent of him, even his voice, soft as it was, overcame the music.
“Now step back with your left foot, and then our left hands touch,” she added. “Above our heads,” She had been sketching and she was not wearing her gloves. His fingers were warm around hers. “And now we turn.”
They turned until she was a kaleidoscope of secret feelings, wants and desires, heat and need. She’d never felt drawn to anyone the way she felt drawn to him. She wanted so much to steal the Prince’s blasted letter from him and add her name to the list. To cross out all of the others. To stay here with him.
She stumbled to a halt, forced a smile.
“And that is waltzing.”
She dropped into a curtsy. He bowed, silent. There was too much to say. Not enough words. Not enough of the right words, at any rate.
“I should go,” she added, her voice feeling strange in her mouth. “I have more statues to draw. A treasure still to find.”
“Of course. Any luck?”
“None at all. Well, that’s not true. Lady Marigold made a comment about Dahlia’s fascination with seashells.”
“And George is looking through the family bibles and journals for anything to do with Lady Dahlia.”
“That should help.”
He watched her walk away. There was a small, irritated sigh at his shoulder. “Dear boy, what are you waiting for?” Lady Blackwell said.