“You’re not going to tell me.” The carriage was slowing now.
“No.” He glanced at the window. They were outside her town house. It blazed in the night with lit lanterns. He looked back at her. “But I wasn’t with a woman; I give you my word.”
“It shouldn’t matter to me.”
“But it does, doesn’t it?”
“I think you presume too much, Mr. Hartley.”
“I think I don’t.”
A footman opened the carriage door. Sam stepped down and then turned to offer her his hand. She hesitated a moment, as if considering whether to let him help her or not. She was surrounded by the dark interior of the carriage, her pale face and bosom glowing as if lit by a fire from within. She placed her small gloved hand in his. He tightened his fingers over hers as he drew her into the light by the walk.
“Thank you,” she said, and tugged at her hand.
He stared down at her dark eyes, aware that he didn’t want to let her go. But in the end, he opened his hand and let hers slip away. There was no other choice.
o;Oh, I just can’t!” Rebecca suddenly stopped in midturn. “These steps are so slow. I feel like I’ll overbalance and fall.”
“Perhaps you need a partner,” Mr. Hartley said. He rose and made a lovely bow to his sister. “May I?”
The girl blushed very prettily. “You don’t mind?”
“Not unless you stomp on my toes.” He grinned down at Rebecca.
Emeline blinked. Mr. Hartley was exceedingly handsome when he smiled. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?
“The only problem,” he continued, “is that I’m in as much need of tuition as you.” He looked expectantly at Emeline.
Devious. Emeline nodded briskly and stepped forward so that she and Rebecca now flanked Mr. Hartley in a line. She held out her hand to him. He took her fingertips, quite properly, but his hand felt hot on hers.
Emeline cleared her throat. She raised their joined hands to shoulder height and faced forward. “Very well.” She pointed her right toe. “We begin on three. One and two and three.”
For the next quarter hour, they practiced various dance steps together. Mr. Hartley sometimes partnered his sister, sometimes her. And Emeline, though she would never have admitted it even if put on the rack, rather enjoyed herself. She was amazed that such a big man could be so light and graceful on his feet.
Then somehow, Rebecca made a false step, and she and her brother ended up tangled. He caught his sister about the waist as Emeline hastily stepped away from the mess. “Careful there, Becca, or you’ll have your partner on the floor.”
“Oh, I’m terrible at this!” the younger girl cried. “It isn’t fair! You never danced this way as a boy and yet you can follow the steps.”
Emeline looked between brother and sister. “In what way did Mr. Hartley dance as a boy?”
“Badly,” he said.
While at the same time his sister said, “He jigged.”
“Jigged?” Emeline tried to imagine Mr. Hartley’s tall form bouncing up and down in a country jig.
“The peasants about the château where I grew up used to dance so,” Tante remarked.
“I would like to see you jig,” Emeline mused.
Mr. Hartley shot her an ironic look. Emeline smiled back. For a moment, their gazes were locked and she couldn’t quite discern the look in his brown eyes.
“He was wonderfully fast,” Rebecca said, warming to her theme. “But then he got old and stiff, and he doesn’t jig anymore.”
Mr. Hartley broke eye contact with Emeline to mock frown at his sister. “A challenge if I ever heard one.”
He took off his coat and, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, struck a pose, hands on hips, head held high.