“I don't hold hands with other men,” Zachary said. “And that little frog-eater looked like he was going to enjoy it.”
Holly rolled her eyes and let the comment pass.
They stood alone in the sumptuously upholstered ballroom, the walls covered in pale green silk and acres of overwrought gilded carving. Rows of rich green malachite columns, fit for a Russian palace, filled the spaces between gold-framed mirrors that reached eighteen feet in height. It seemed remarkable that the ceiling could support the weight of the six massive chandeliers sparkling with carriage-loads of crystal drops. Since no music was necessary for Zachary to learn the basic patterns of various dances, the musicians' bower at the back of the room was empty.
Zachary saw his partner's reflection in many of the mirrors that surrounded them. Her gray gown was incongruous in such an ornate setting. What would Holly look like in a ball gown? He imagined her in some low-cut garment with bare shoulders, trimmed with the frothy stuff he had seen on womens' evening dresses lately: the pretty, round shapes of her breasts rising from the bodice…the glitter of diamonds on her pale skin. Her dark brown hair upswept to reveal jeweled earbobs clasped to her little ears—
“Do you remember the rules of ballroom etiquette that we discussed yesterday?” he heard her ask, and he forced his attention to the business at hand.
“Once I've asked a young lady to dance,” he said in a singsong tone, “I should not leave her until I've returned her to the chaperone. After the dance is finished, I ask if she will take some refreshment. If she says yes, I find a seat for her in the refreshment room and provide everything she needs, and stay with her as long as she cares to sit there.” He paused and asked with a slight scowl, “What if she wants to sit and fill her face for an hour? Or even longer?”
“You will remain with her until she is satisfied,” Holly said. “And then you will return her to the chaperone and bow, and offer thanks for the pleasure of her company. Furthermore, you must dance with the plain girls as well as the beautiful ones, and never dance more than twice with one particular partner. And in the event of a supper dance, you must offer to escort the chaperone to the dining table, and be as agreeable and charming as possible.”
Zachary sighed heavily.
“Now, on to the opening march,” Holly said briskly. “When you lead the march at your own ball, you must keep the pace slow and dignified. Follow the direction of the walls, and execute the change steps at the corners.” She leaned a bit closer to him and said in a conspiratorial manner, “A march is really just a walk around the room for all the ladies to display their finery. You can't make a mistake, Mr. Bronson. Just lead the couples around the sides and back through the center of the ballroom. And try to look a bit arrogant. It should pose very little problem for you.”
Her gentle teasing caused a surge of pleasure inside him. The idea of performing the staid, pretentious march at a ball usually made Zachary jeer and laugh. But the notion of parading around the room to display a woman like Holly on his arm…well, that had some merit. It was a territorial statement that he rather liked.
“And you must never, never march with two ladies at once,” Holly admonished.
“Why not?”
“For one thing, the change steps at the corners would be impossible, and for another…” She stopped, seeming to forget what she had been about to say as their gazes met. Blinking slowly, as if she were distracted, she forced herself to continue. “It's an honor that a gentleman does to one particular lady.” She reached for his arm and took it lightly. “Let us proceed to the first corner.”
They walked with great dignity, while Zachary was absurdly conscious of the sound his feet made on the gleaming parqueted floor. Upon reaching the corner, they paused while Holly explained the change steps. “I will release your arm and take your hand, and you will guide me from your left side to your right…” She began to execute the movement as she spoke, and Zachary obliged her. Their hands touched, and the feel of her cool little fingers sliding against his palm caused Zachary to catch his breath.
Holly stopped in apparent confusion and snatched her hand back with a slight gasp. She must have felt it, too, the exciting leap of sensation that resulted from the touch of their hands. Zachary stood staring at her down-bent head, dying to clasp his palms over her sleek, dark hair and tilt her face upward. He would never forget how it had felt to kiss her, the way her lips had clung to his, the sweet interior of her mouth, the vulnerable sound of her breathing.
“We…” Holly said unsteadily, “we should be wearing gloves. Ladies and gentlemen always wear gloves when they dance.”
“Shall I send someone to fetch them?” Zachary was surprised by the raspiness of his own voice.
“No, I…I suppose that won't be necessary.” She took a deep breath, appearing to compose herself. “Always bring an extra pair of gloves to a ball,” she murmured. “A gentleman should never offer a soiled glove to a lady.”
Not looking at him, she reached for his hand once more. Their bare fingers clasped for a brief, electric moment, and she guided him through the change steps.
“It's been so long,” he heard her say in near-whisper. “I've almost forgotten how to do this.”
“You haven't danced since George?” he asked.
She shoo
k her head in wordless response.
This was his particular idea of hell, Zachary reflected silently, his mind and body on fire as the lesson on marching proceeded. He was grateful for the fashionably long hem of his coat that draped over the front of his trousers. If Holly had any inkling of how aroused he was, how close he was to crushing her against him and defiling her with his hands, mouth and every conceivable part of his body, she would probably run screaming from the ballroom.
However, the march wasn't nearly as bad as the quadrille, a tedious pattern of glissades and chassés, and all manner of foppish footwork. And the waltz turned out to be the most excruciating torment man—or woman—had ever devised.
“Stand just a little to my right,” Holly said, her thick lashes lowering over her eyes, “and put your right arm around my waist. Firmly, but not too tightly.”
“Like this?” Carefully Zachary fitted his arm around the neat curve of her waist, feeling unaccountably awkward. He, of all men, was well accustomed to holding a woman in his arms, but this experience was different from all others. He had never touched someone as fine as she, had never wanted so keenly to please a woman. For once her emotions were difficult to read, and he wondered if she disliked being so close to him. After all, she had been used to dancing in the slim, elegant arms of aristocratic men, not brawny, low-bred bruisers like himself. His hands felt like big paws, his feet as large and heavy as carriage wheels.
Her left hand came to rest gently on his right shoulder. His tailor had stripped every bit of padding from the shoulder of his coat in an effort to make him appear smaller, but unfortunately nothing could conceal the brutish swell of muscle.
Holly took his left hand in her right…Her fingers felt dainty and crushable. She was so light and sweet in his arms that it caused a pang of yearning inside him. “The man guides his partner with this hand,” she said, her face upturned. “You mustn't hold my fingers too tightly…your grasp must be firm and steady, but gentle. And keep your arm just a bit rounded.”
“I'm afraid I'm going to step on you,” he muttered.