A flush filled her cheeks as she imagined him spinning about the room, humming the way Ace did during the lessons he had given her.
Boxby stopped just in front of her, reaching out a hand as one of his feet slid back, dropping into a smooth dip of invitation. She lifted her arm but didn’t place her fingers in his right away. Instead she let her palm hover above his. “I have questions first.”
“Questions?”
“How will a man, at a ball, ask me to dance?” She cocked her head to the side as she waited for answer. If she understood all the rituals, perhaps she could quell her nerves.
He stared at her for the beat of several seconds. “Likely he’ll say something very clever and witty, like ‘May I have this dance?’”
Heat flushed in her cheeks, embarrassment coursing through her. He was teasing her because she likely should have known that. But there hadn’t been much money since her father’s death and her formal lessons had been replaced with Ace’s. And even he did not spend much time in society. How did he know how all this pomp and circumstance should be done? She could not afford to make a fool of herself right from the start.
“And dance cards. Do I write on them or does the gentleman?” She’d never rise up the ranks of thetonwithout a basic understanding of how all this worked. An understanding most ladies already possessed, leaving her at a clear disadvantage.
“Either. Both. Some ladies prefer to keep how many dances they have available private, while others like to leave the task of writing to the man who has asked.”
“And how should I respond when he asked for a dance?”
Again, there was a pause. “Did you not have dance lessons? Etiquette training?”
The heat in her cheeks burned hotter. “Not since I was twelve, when my father passed. We only ever had limited funds even before he died, but after that…” She looked at the floor. “And now my brothers don’t wish for tutors or servants in the house. It’s almost like a point of pride for them that we live differently.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes as he lifted up his hand to clasp hers. “Always respond with ‘I’d be honored, my lord’ or ‘Mr. So and So.’ And you cannot refuse unless you’ve been committed to another partner. So never refuse one man and then accept another.”
She nodded, drinking in his words even as a shock of awareness tingled up her arm. She looked at their clasped hands, hers small and pale and his so much larger and darker.
Without another word, he gently pulled her closer, placing his other arm about her waist as she lifted her skirts with her free hand.
He gave her a quick nod and a smile and then looked at the violinist, silently signaling the man to begin.
Mirabelle swallowed the giant lump in her throat as she forced her spine straight. Perhaps it was because she’d not danced with a man other than Ace ever…but she doubted she’d be more nervous at her first ball. The emotion filled her head, creating a buzz, and making it impossible to concentrate.
“Relax,” Lord Boxby whispered as he dipped their arms down and took the first step. Mirabelle stepped too but she realized a beat too late that she’d started it in the wrong direction. Rather than moving to the side, she started forward and promptly crashed into Boxby’s solid chest.
She gasped as her skirts tangled in his legs, her head snapping up see his amused features looking back at her as he chuckled.
Had her face been hot before? She was surely turning scarlet now. “I…”
“You”—he still laughed even as he spoke—“were smart to win this lesson. You need it. Desperately.”
Her mouth opened and then closed as she tried but failed to protest. She did need this. But one lesson was hardly going to turn her from a bumbling fool into a proper lady.
* * *
Ken signaledfor the violinist to stop. He could tell by Mirabelle’s posture that she knew how to dance. So why was she so nervous? Why had she misstepped?
His brow crinkled as he looked down at the bright red stains of color slashing over her ivory skin. It spread down her neck as her lip trembled. Her body was still close to his, distractingly close, her scent wafting up into his nostrils. It was less floral—no rosewater for Mirabelle, like so many ladies. Instead, she smelled like fresh spring air and something deep and spicy. Intoxicating.
“You’re nervous,” he said, as much to himself as to her.
She gave a tentative nod. “What if I fail?”
“Fail at dancing?” He shook his head. “I’m sure you won’t.”
But her lip still trembled. “What if I fail at being a debutante?”
His eyes widened as bit as he understood. “Your brother is a marquess. You won’t fail, I can assure you. It’s nearly impossible with such standing as his. You’ll make a good match.”
Her tongue darted out, licking at her bottom lip. He followed the track, knowing the attraction that he felt convoluted the lesson as his body tensed with awareness. If he didn’t feel this nagging pull toward her, he could likely offer to help her a bit more. But the last thing he wished was to end up doing something foolish like kissing her. He’d have to wed her then.