Page 36 of Caught With the Scarred Duke
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The orchestra struck up a lively tune in response to the call for a country dance from the lead couple, but it might as well have been a funeral dirge for all the effect it was having on Teresa’s body. Her legs were two stalks of lead, her arms clamped at her sides, her heart stuck in her throat, the blood in her veins replaced with the electric crackle of pure terror.
Remember your lessons.It did not help, her palms remembering the sting of Master Venyamin’s cane, striking after every misstep she made. And she had made them often.
But Cyrus began to move, and if she did not respond in kind, she would make a mockery of not only herself, but him too. Not quite the grand reintroduction to society he might have been hoping for.
Everyone is watching. Why must everyone be watching?
Panicked to the point of perspiration, she glanced around at the spectators: clusters of curious women who had not hesitated to greet her earlier, and would not hesitate to judge her now; casually interested gentlemen who talked among themselves, their attention divided; mothers and grandmothers with their noses in the air, perhaps wondering why they had not schemed to put their girls in the path of such a duke, when he obviously was not picky.
“Look at me,” Cyrus’ voice commanded, as he stopped in front of her, towering over her with that tremendous height of his.
Her eyelids fluttered, her gaze turning upward.
“That is better,” he said. “Now, dance as if there is no one here but us.”
That was easier said than done, the burn of so many eyes striking like sparks across her skin, but when he stepped left and right, back and forth, she mirrored him. As if he had control of her, and she was helpless to do anything but obey his orders.
As the music quickened, her shaky limbs began to find their rhythm, hopping and leaping and twirling along with Cyrus and the rest of the dancers. Blending in, in a way she had never done before. The more she became one of the many, a cog in the clockwork of the larger group of dancers, the more her confidence grew.
Her legs and arms slowly relaxed, the steps becoming easier, creating a fluidity she had not known she was capable of. Sheflowed with the music, her field of vision narrowing to just him: her husband. Sure enough, as if in a vignette, the spectators faded out of her awareness, relieving the pressure and the nerves that had commandeered her veins.
“Thatisbetter,” Cyrus said, and though his voice was unchanged, she got the feeling he was teasing her.
“The music has seen fit to oil what was rusty,” she replied with a small, shy smile. “Youare more accomplished than I thought you would be.”
He raised an eyebrow as he pressed his palm to hers, the two of them circling one another. “I am a duke. The ability to dance is essential.”
“But you are a giant,” she insisted. “Those gifted with such… immense height are not usually so adept at dancing. There is too much of them to move around with any grace.”
A slight snort escaped him. “By that reasoning, the exceedingly tiny should be the very best dancers.”
“I have never thought to make such a study,” Teresa replied, enjoying the tentative comfort that bloomed between them. A thing that required caution, in case she caused the bud of it to wither before it could fully blossom.
Cyrus cast a sideways glance down the line of fellow couples. “I already see one contradiction.”
Teresa followed his gaze, hurrying to stifle a chuckle that bubbled up her throat. A young lady further down the line was fighting for her life, seemingly tripping over her own feet, struggling to keep up with the pace of the dance to the obvious dismay of her partner. The lady was incredibly short, and it appeared that was part of the problem; her small legs and feet simply were not fast enough.
“That isveryunkind,” Teresa scolded lightly, to herself for almost laughing as well as to Cyrus for pointing out the poor woman’s difficulty.
“Merely an observation,” he replied, turning, so they might circle back in the opposite direction.
She frowned at him as they moved together, still unable to figure him out. There should have been a mischievous smile or a glint in his eye, to match the remark he had made, yet there was nothing. His expression remained steadfast in its concealment of what existed beneath.
“Did you just jest with me?” she asked bluntly.
He raised an eyebrow. “I never jest.”
“You did at the Tea House,” she pointed out. “When you joked about apparitions emerging from solid walls.”
A slight cough rasped in his throat, like he had a lump that would not clear. “A joke must elicit laughter. As there was no laughter,there was no jest. And I was quite serious about our first meeting not being an embarrassment. It was… a very efficient way to meet a bride.”
She recalled her earlier fears that he thought she had schemed their meeting, and nearly asked him outright if he believed that… until she remembered how fiercely he had come to her defense. Even against his friend.
But if that was not the reason for his distant demeanor, then what was?
We are not so distant now, though, are we?she mused, her palm feeling the loss of him as he suddenly swept backward to join the line of gentlemen.
