Page 35 of The Traitor
“When a titled lady jilts a fiancé of long-standing, the gossip goes beyond the servants’ hall, my lord. She’s very pretty.” In a blond, blue-eyed, wealthy, titled sort of way—with a narrow nose.
He set the poker back on the hearth stand, then moved it to the other side of the ash broom.
“Would she and I have suited, Miss Danforth? She told me in no uncertain terms what she thinks of a man who would serve the Corsican. She and her family might well have dubbed me the Traitor Baron.”
His tone was light, still amused, while Milly wanted to hurl the ink pot and overturn the flowers.
“She’s an idiot. Had you been a French boy sent to England for an education, then drafted to serve under Wellington, I doubt the French would be so judgmental. I do hate the lettere.”
“A woman of violent passions never fails to hold a man’s attention. Why does the letter inspire your ill will?”
Something was provoking St. Clair to smile, and not a charming smile, but rather, a private, pleased smile.
“Don’t make fun of me and my letters, sir. You waged war against England. I wage war against being unlettered, and hostilities are not yet concluded. When a letter consists only of a narrow little loop, one loses track of it. When I drop a stitch, I know it. When I drop a letter—”
Some helpful, overbearing soul invariably pointed it out to her.
“Come here, Milly Danforth.” He held out a hand, the way a gentleman might offer a lady assistance into or out of an elegant coach. Milly rose, because that was what one did when St. Clair issued his orders.
She took his hand, and he arranged her in waltz position. “Close your eyes.”
Why not?She closed her eyes, the better to enjoy his fragrance, the better to enjoy the fiction that they might, even in this parlor, indulge in a few steps of the dance.
The door was open, in any case. Let the footmen think what they would.
“You will let me lead you in an exploration of the lettere.” He gathered her closer and moved off with her, slowly but confidently. Three steps up, a little shift, and three steps back. Another shift, and the same pattern, again and again.
“You’re making a chain stitch with me.”
“You have maligned a perfectly agreeable letter, Miss Danforth. A simple loop exists not to confound you, but to pleasure your hand in its making.”
Or her entire body. He danced wonderfully, and to be held like this—Milly’s opinion of the lettereunderwent a drastic revision.
“I think you have it, madam, but now we will venture on to the letterl.”
She liked the letterleven better, because it was six steps up, and six steps back, a more ambitious undertaking in the small parlor.
“There are twol’s in Millicent,” she said. And for no reason, no reason at all, this inspired her to lay her cheek against his chest. Theye’d andl’d ando’d (as in Danforth) a while longer before St. Clair came to a gliding halt.
“Keep your eyes closed, my dear.”
Milly could feel the breath of his words against her forehead. He grasped her by the wrist and led her a few steps closer to the window—the cooling temperature told her that much.
“Sit, if you please.” He scooted her chair for her, and then a pen was placed in Milly’s hands, her fingers arranged around it. “Now our hands will dance a bit.”
His fingers closed over hers, and he waltzed the pen across a paper, one-two-three, one-two-three, firste’s, thenl’s, then a fewo’s. “Do you feel these letters, Miss Danforth? Could you play them like notes in the dark?”
Milly could tell he was standing bent over her, could sense the heat and size of him as he guided her hand across the page, but she shoved those distractions aside.
“I want to peek.”
“Not yet. You must solo first.” He took his hand away. “Dance me some pretty letters, Miss Danforth. One-two-three, one-two-three…”
He dropped into French dancing-master—“un, deux, trois”—to count off the waltz, and Milly struck off across the page.
“Stop.”
Before Milly could open her eyes, he’d whisked the paper away from her and held it up above her line of sight. “We have a few more dances ahead of us, Miss Danforth.”
