Page 19 of Where the Heart Leads
With the vibrancy that infused her features, indeed, her whole being, she was a striking package, even more so when viewed against the pale, meek, pastel uniformity of the other young ladies on the marriage mart.
He seriously doubted she understood that, far from being a deterrent, her waspish nature and high-handed attitude to her would-be suitors was, in her case, having the opposite effect. Her behavior had established her as a prize to be won, and the gentlemen who circled her were perfectly cognizant of the intangible cachet attached to winning her hand.
Listening to her deal with—and in Rigby’s case, drive off—all those who had dared to get in the way of her learning what he, Barnaby, had to say, it was perfectly obvious that she considered gentlemen, as a species, to be significantly less intelligent than she.
He had to admit that in the majority of cases she was correct, but not all gentlemen were dolts. A compulsion to point that out, to score at least one point for his sex, and perhaps along the way nudge her into some comprehension of her attractiveness to males and what underpinned that—thus rendering a service to her hapless would-be suitors—burgeoned, teased, and tempted.
“Finally!” With one last glare at Rigby’s departing back, Penelope once again turned to him.
Before she could speak, he held up a staying hand. “I fear Hellicar was correct. If we stand here chatting, too many will see it as a continuing invitation to join us. Might I suggest, in pursuit of our common goal, that we take advantage of the waltz the musicians are apparently about to play?”
He half bowed, and offered his hand.
Penelope stared at it, then at him. The introductory bars of a waltz floated over the surrounding conversations. “You want to waltz?”
One brown brow quirked. “We’ll be able to talk sufficiently privately without risk of interruption.” He studied her eyes. “Don’t you waltz?”
She frowned. “Of course I do. Not even I could avoid being taught to waltz.” Girding her loins, steeling her senses, she put her fingers in his. She had to learn what he’d been trying to tell her, and in light of her annoying suitors, the dance floor held the most hope of success.
He turned her toward the salon. “From which comment I take it you tried.”
Drawing in a slow breath past the constriction in her lungs, she looked up, puzzled…
“To avoid being taught to waltz.”
She blinked. Prayed he wouldn’t guess his touch had so scrambled her wits she’d lost track of his words. She looked ahead. “I didn’t at first see any point in my mastering such a skill, but then…” Lightly, she shrugged, and let him steer her onto the floor, then turn her into his arms.
They closed around her—gently, correctly—yet still her senses quaked. She inwardly swore at them to behave. Despite her irritating reaction to him, this was, she told herself, an excellent idea.
She’d dropped her opposition to being taught to waltz when she’d discovered that waltzing could be exhilarating and exciting. She rarely indulged these days because so many partners had disappointed her.
She fully expected Adair to disappoint her, too—which would be a very good thing. Once she discovered he was a less-than-adequate dance partner, her swooning senses would immediately lose interest. There was no better way to cure them of their ridiculous obsession with him.
Head high, chin tilted to just the right angle, a confident smile curving her lips, she stepped out—and immediately found herself following, rather than leading.
It took a moment for her to adjust, but that was one point in his favor.
Then she recalled she didn’t want him to impress her, not in this arena.
Unfortunately…
Her cause withered and died as, her gaze locked on his face, she felt herself being whirled effortlessly down the room, checking and swirling along with the other couples precessing around the floor. It wasn’t simply the ease with which he moved her—she was slight enough that most gentlemen managed that—but the sense of power, of control, of harnessed energy he brought to the simple revolutions of the waltz.
Far from being freed, she was caught, trapped.
And despite it being preciselynotwhat she’d wanted, she found her lips curving more genuinely, found herself relaxing into his loose embrace as she accepted that yes, he could waltz. That yes, she could give herself over to his mastery and simply enjoy.
It had been so long since she’d taken pleasure in a waltz.
His blue eyes searched her face, then his lips quirked. “You obviously changed your mind and paid attention to your dance master.”
“Luc, my brother. He was a dictatorial taskmaster.” She gave herself one more moment to enjoy the sensation of floating around the floor, of his strong thighs brushing her skirts as they whirled, before asking, “Now, at last, we can complete our conversation. So what was it you wanted to know?”
Barnaby looked down into her wide brown eyes, and wondered why she hadn’t wanted to waltz. “I was going to suggest that if you could identify any other boys who might be orphaned in the near future and who met the kidnappers’ criteria, we might put a watch on them, both to identify the kidnappers if they come calling and, ultimately, to protect the boys from being snatched.”
She blinked. Her eyes widened. “Yes, of course. What an excellent idea!” She breathed the words as if being visited by revelation. Then she snapped free and briskly took charge. “I’ll go through the files tomorrow. If I find any possible candidate—”
“I’ll meet you at the Foundling House tomorrow morning.” He smiled. Intently. If she thought he was going to let her loose on the hunt, she would need to think again. “We can go through the files together.”
