Page 32 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
“Is that what you were doing?” Antonia asked. “Drawing pictures of people?” She spread the doll’s legs wide, bent the knees and tucked its ankles around its neck. With a one-sided grin, she placed it back where she had found it. The little figurine held its obscene position. Havencrest’s mouth flattened.
Did this make Malcolm uncomfortable? How disappointing.
Since he had promised not to kiss her unless she did so first, Antonia figured she had plenty of room to test the boundaries of his resolve. He said nothing as he set about putting away his art supplies. But the instant she had the opportunity, she slipped the stack of paper out from beneath his elbow and whirled away, flipping through the contents as she walked.
In the middle of the room, she halted. Antonia had been so absorbed in Malcolm’s sketches that she hadn’t noticed him following her until he loomed over her and snatched the stack of papers out of her hands. She turned on her heel.
“Why are you drawing me?” she demanded.
“I’m not.” He kept his back to her while he carefully tapped the pages back into alignment. He placed the stack into a leather case and tied it shut. The folio and the wooden case of supplies tucked away beneath the table.
“Who is she?” A strange tightness constricted her chest, composed of equal parts agony and despair.
“My mother.”
Oh. The Dowager Duchess of Summervale had remarked upon Antonia’s resemblance to her daughter. At the time, she had brushed it off as the sad meanderings of an old woman’s fading memory. But if the sketches were close enough, perhaps there was more to it.
“I thought today that we should start with a cotillion. It is fairly straightforward, and a well-executed dance would go a long way toward restoring your reputation amongst the Almack’s patronesses.”
Antonia hoped her relief wasn’t visible to the duke. He left the drawings on the table and turned to face her. “Like this.”
Havencrest seized her hand. Antonia permitted it, though she wanted to yank her hand free and demand he show her the pictures he’d been making. If she did, he’d deny ever having touched a pencil, so she let him lead her to the center of the room instead. Antonia knew stubbornness when she saw it. Malcolm’s nearly matched her own.
“Ideally, there would be four couples. Ideally, we begin with a circle. As that is a pointless effort in the face of no partners, we shall move on to the basic steps. We cross our arms over our backs, like so, and make two half circles.”
Antonia chose to be pliant as they grasped hands at the small of one another’s backs.
“Good. Now look me in the eye. We shall do a full turn, and then, we would switch partners.”
“Switch partners?” Antonia asked as dread dampened her interest in his personal artwork.
“Yes, you do this with each male half of the four partners who are dancing.” He frowned. “Does that make sense?”
“Show me again.” Antonia bounced on the balls of her feet as Malcolm grasped her hand again. Her chin dropped to watch her toes as they poked out from beneath the hem of her amber silk gown. A whisper of skin urged her gaze upward.
“We look at one another and pretend to be enjoying this process,” he instructed. “Like this.”
Antonia followed. When he released her, she switched sides and grasped his other hand to resume the twirl.
“Well done,” he complimented. “Although you’re trying to lead again.”
“I’m not,” Antonia insisted. “You have a long stride, Malcolm. It’s not easy to keep up with you.”
Contrite, he shortened his step to match hers. “Better?”
“Yes. Thank you. This is far superior to the waltz, in my view,” Antonia said as familiar warmth slid through her midsection.
“Why so?” Havencrest asked. In her mind, he was still the high-handed duke who had blackmailed her into staying when she had planned on running. But alone here in this under-heated space she had glimpsed the solitary man who kept his hurt to himself. That man, Malcolm, intrigued her far too much. Or, perhaps Antonia was tired of running. She had a sumptuous bed in which to lay her head each evening, the makings of a friend in Margaret, and whatever this was between her and Havencrest. It frightened her how her heart seized on the tiniest bud of a future. Best to yank it out by the roots before it could grow and blossom into hope.
“The cotillion is a dance where a lady is permitted to see where she is going,” Antonia remarked. She skipped backward and wheeled away as if to take up with an invisible dance partner. She dropped a curtsey the way she’d practiced when she was staying with the American Kilpatrick ladies.
“Duly noted. It also offers far less opportunity for conversation. Ideal when one is disinclined toward one’s partner. A waltz is altogether more romantic.”
“No wonder we were such terrible partners, then. The very last thing we are is romantic.” Malcolm’s eyes had glinted with amusement, but now they shaded. It made Antonia feel small and shrewish. They switched again, and then again. For a quarter-hour or so Havencrest walked her through the steps. “Now, let’s put them together.”
Antonia successfully completed a dance.
“One last piece of advice. You are expected to smile when dancing.”
