Authors: Kelly Jameson
19
Genevieve sat in the drawing room, her glossy black hair and smooth complexion set off to distinction by the Italian blue dress she wore. “I’ll pay you handsomely to teach her as much dancing, basic French, and etiquette as you can in the next three days,” Genevieve said. “We don’t have much time. The girls will be given a reprieve from their lessons. They are studying Latin, aren’t they? So I’m sure they won’t mind. Will you do it?”
“A most unusual situation,” Romey Potter commented, scratching his chin with his finger. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Of course you will be discreet,” she added, fluttering her thick dark lashes. “It’s best if Nicholas doesn’t know about the arrangement. The grand ball is Friday. I’ve already had her to the dressmakers and forced her through several rushed fittings. I’m having several dresses made of different colors and fabrics, just in case she insists on turning down my charity. I want to tempt her with satins, laces, and velvets. There’s got to be one dress that she can’t resist. What woman wouldn’t want a beautiful dress adorning her figure?” Genevieve rose and smiled sweetly. He didn’t know it yet, but Romey Potter was already wrapped around her little finger. “Do we have a deal?”
Romey nodded. “But we don’t know how this experiment is going to turn out, Miss Genevieve. From what you told me before, we have a lot of work to do. I don’t know if I’ll be successful.”
Genevieve rolled her eyes, mumbling something about men and how stubborn they were, and left Romey to go teach his lessons and give the girls the good news. No Latin for three whole days. They would be tickled pink. And maybe for once, she'd see Damaris smile. It'd been so long since she'd seen her genuinely smile.
20
“I’ve never danced with a gentleman before,” Camille remarked. “In fact, I’ve never danced at all. I’ll probably step all over your toes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Romey said, laughing. “You don’t have to be an expert. You just have to listen to the music, feel it in your heart and the rest will happen. You’ll look like you know what you’re doing. Besides, not all those attending the party are considered gentlemen
.
”
They were walking down magnificent steps adorned with curled wrought iron railings into the broad sweeping garden. Was it only days ago that Camille had been lost in these very gardens, wondering what it would be like to be the lady of the house? And now she
was
Mrs. Nicholas Branton
.
It was all so unreal.
At first Camille had been angry about the arrangement Genevieve had made to ‘tutor’ her in the fine graces of being Mrs. Branton. But then she’d realized Genevieve was probably the only person trying to help her and had decided to humor her request. Plus, her mood was lightened a little by the fact that a doctor had seen to Meagan and she was on the mend.
Romey Potter was only an inch or so taller than she was and very studious looking with his wire-rimmed glasses.
“I thought you might like some privacy until you feel comfortable with the steps,” Romey said, absently fiddling with his glasses. “There's a secluded arbor not far from here. We can practice there.”
A faint breeze carrying the scent of verbenas slid over them. Despite the warmth, Camille was comfortable. She wore her own clothes, her best blouse and skirt. Though they were somewhat worn, they were sturdy. After the incident in the tavern, Genevieve had thought to send for her things, a small blessing, considering her own husband forbade her to go back to the tavern. And she was not about to put another one of Marlena’s dresses on.
She studied the orange trees basking in the heat and the pink and mauve roses trailing the borders of the path. Eventually, they came to the arbor. “Mr. Potter, what about music?”
“Call me Romey. I’m glad you asked. We’re not going to need music, Camille. It is alright if I call you Camille?” She nodded and he took her hand, leading her into the center of the arbor. Tall trees, thick bushes with budding pink flowers, and a circular hedge of boxwoods hemmed them in. “Now, I want you to close your eyes and think of your favorite song. Anything.”
Camille closed her eyes. “Ok. I’ve thought of something, a song I love. But I don’t know what it’s called.”
“That’s alright. Just imagine yourself in an elegant ballroom; see the musicians sitting on the dais. The candles are flickering. The musicians raise their bows....”
Camille smiled. She’d never been to a ball, but she could imagine what it would be like. She didn’t have the heart to tell Romey that his task was hopeless; they had less than three days to turn her into a lady of sophistication and grace. And what did it matter anyway? Nicholas would expect her to falter, to make grievous social missteps.
He would dance one dance with her for show, because he had to, and then he would probably leave her to her own devices. He would expect her to act the part of a loving wife in public, but would he act the part of devoted husband?
Camille felt a new determination. She would learn everything she could. She would match him move for move. She would be graceful and sophisticated; she would hold her head high. She would act like she belonged. She had promised to play the part, and she would. She just hoped he wouldn’t be expecting her to play it so well
.
“Just listen to the music and my voice. Concentrate while I tell you about etiquette,” Romey said.
“Ladies are first to be cared for, to have the best seats, and are always entitled to courteous protection. Your husband will dance the first set with you but is not expected to dance with you otherwise. That would be unfair to the other guests.
Now a good dance partner neither leads nor follows but trusts and anticipates. Be careful how you refuse to dance with a gentleman; if you plead fatigue, do not dance with another. Dance quietly, do not caper about, and dance only from the hips downward. And always carry two pairs of gloves; if one pair gets soiled from handling refreshments, you can slip discreetly from the room, change to a fresh pair, and return with none the wiser. And if a gentlemen should pinch you....”
“If a gentleman should pinch me, he’ll get a slap across the cheek,” Camille said.
Romey looked concerned.
“I’m not serious, Romey.” Camille thought of how often she’d been pinched at the tavern. She’d learned it was best to just ignore it.
Romey looked relieved. “We’ll start with the waltz,” he said, “which began as an Austrian peasant dance. It’s very popular in Europe though some think it vulgar. It’s quite beautiful, I think. But if you feel uncomfortable with any of the movements, just say so.”
“I should be able to pick that one up,” Camille said quietly. “After all, I’m just a peasant.”
Somebody’s stupid wench.
Her uncle’s cruel words echoed in her mind.
Romey placed his finger under her chin and she opened her eyes. “You are only a peasant if you think you are. You have more natural grace and sincerity than most of the wealthy ladies I know, and I have faith in you. Now enough feeling sorry for yourself.” He dropped his hands and began to demonstrate, pretending he had a partner.
“The basic steps of the waltz can be learned in a short time. The other dances require more practice. We’re going to roll, turn, and glide in time with the music.”
He took her hands and began to show her. “Step-step-close. Step-step-close.”
“Oh!” Camille faltered, stepping on his foot again and again and again.
“We’re not leaving here until you have it right.”
“You are merciless, Romey. And your poor feet!”
He smiled. “My feet are fine. It’s true they haven’t taken a beating like this since I taught poor Mrs. Allister’s daughter to dance, but it’s worth it. Once you have this down, you can pretty much fake your way through the evening–even if you don’t know the mazurka, the schottische, or the gallop.”
An hour later, she had made considerable progress. “Now one more time, and then I think Miss Genevieve has plans for your afternoon.”
By now, they had got the rhythm of the dance and waltzed easily around the arbor. Romey smiled proudly. “Your husband will be pleasantly surprised.”
“I’d say so.”
They started at the sound of the gruff voice.
“I hope you’ve saved a dance for me, wife.”
His eyes were gold-bronze sparks touching her like late afternoon sunshine on a frozen lake. His arms were crossed casually over his chest as
he
leaned against the base of a tree watching them. How long had he been there?
He looked at Romey. “I’d like a moment with my wife.”
Romey nodded and slunk away.
Nicholas strode toward Camille and stopped directly in front of her, leaving mere inches between them. He reached out and took a silken strand of her hair in his fingers. “Now that the tavern men are off limits, you are seducing the hired help?”
Camille pushed his hand away, smoothing the errant tendril back in place. Of course he would think the worst of her. Why did it surprise her each and every time he did it? It would never cross his mind that she might be taking a dancing lesson so that she would keep up her end of the bargain, look presentable to his guests at the party? After all, he’d had everything handed to him. He’d grown up in the lap of luxury; he knew all the rules.
A
ll the dances. W
hich fork to use first. He didn’t even have to think about it. And even if he broke the rules, he was a man; he would be forgiven.
Camille poked his broad chest with her finger. “You’re not the smoothest wheel on the cart, are you? You may be wealthy, but your manners are atrocious. You always seem to say what you think
before
you think about it.” She continued poking him. “And you can think what you like,” Camille said. “I don’t care.”
She turned to walk away but he gripped her arm firmly. His fingers were warm through the fabric of her blouse. “You should care, dear wife.” He held her there for a tense moment. “Don’t go just yet, honey. Let’s talk about manners.
”
She craned her neck to look up at him, shading her eyes with her other hand from the bright sunlight.
He gripped her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “How much does it cost?” His mouth was drawn into a hard line, his jaw tense. She stared at the broad plane of his chest, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She didn’t like being alone with him; she didn’t like being this close to him. Her reaction puzzled her.
She hadn’t felt anything strange when Romey had held her hands, instructing her in the dance, and he was pleasant looking. Then again, she wasn’t afraid of Romey. That’s all it was, fear. So she lied, a bad habit she was getting into around the man. “I don’t understand what you are asking, Mr. Branton.”
He cupped her chin and forced her to look at him. “I told you before, call me Nicholas. And I think you do. I just want to know, does a dance cost less than a tossing of your skirts in the gardens?”
Camille was so angry she could burst. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “You can’t afford either.”
21
His eyes grew darker. She noticed he hadn’t shaved that morning; a graze of dark whiskers covered his jaw, making him more menacing. He wore a white shirt open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up, a pair of dark breeches, and suspenders.
He jerked her body closer and bent low to her ear. “Let me show you how the first is done.”
“I don’t want to dance with you.”
“You should have thought of that before.” He whisked her around forcefully, giving her no time to utter a reply, barely giving her time to keep up with him. He leaned low; he pulled her much too close; he brushed her nipple with his arm. He was in complete control. His touch was heated, his movements lithe and commanding. Her body had no choice but to follow his. Camille felt ragged and breathless, like a doll dragged around by a young child. “Please,” she whispered. “Please stop.”
Nicholas stilled their movements but did not release her. She was trembling. He pulled her close, his arms slipping around her. He buried his face in her hair, then quickly brushed her lips with a kiss. She squirmed in his embrace, pushed at his chest.
“Don’t struggle, love,” he breathed. “I just want a small taste of what you give so freely to others.”
He bent his head lower, angling her body against him. For one small moment, he forgot who she was. His mouth slanted firmly over hers, tasting her intimately.
Heat slid through Camille’s body; her limbs trembled; her heart raced. She could feel the sculpted muscles of his thighs through the material of his breeches; the long, hard length of him pressed intimately against her. For one small moment, she forgot who he was and lent herself to the physical experience of the kiss. The roughness of his cheek brushing hers, the way his lips coaxed and commanded hers...it made her feel weak. The garden, the dance lesson, his hurtful words...it all slipped away as his tongue glided over her lips and into her mouth like water over a smooth rock.