Gabriel wasn’t sure if a woman had ever said such welcome words to him, but at that moment, they were his favorite words. And coming from Sarah Cumberbatch made them all the more welcome.
Chapter 12
Dancing with a Dance Master is a Disaster
The dance master began his count, accentuating each number with a quick flick of his wrist. From the tone of his voice, Alistair figured the man had to be bored out of his skull. If Alistair didn’t have Lady Julia’s hand in his and her body less than a foot in front of his, he might have been as well. He couldn’t recall dance lessons being so tedious. In fact, he couldn’t remember learning the contradances by way of lessons and wondered if he had just learned by watching them being performed during the various soirées his mother had forced him to attend. His sister had helped a bit, he just then recalled. She’d been at least a head taller than him at the time and quite vocal about his two left feet. Well, he had outgrown those feet years ago and thought he did just fine when he last attended a ball during the Season two years prior.
Or was that three years ago?
Unfortunately, his momentary lapse in concentration resulted in a missed step – a step he had done a thousand times before – and Julia was forced to take two in order to catch up, breaking the rhythm and drawing the unwanted attention of Monsieur Girard.
“No, no, no!” he shouted suddenly, his knuckles rapping on the dais to this left.
Julia rolled her eyes and glanced in his direction. “I apologize, Monsieur. I lost count,” she lied, hoping the dance master would allow them to continue from where he stopped them. They had executed this same maneuver four times and couldn’t seem to get through the entire sequence.
“Pardon, my lady, but it was entirely my fault,” Alistair countered, still keeping his hold on her. “Might we continue?” he called out. He returned his attention to Julia and gave her a smirk. “I can think of ten things I’d rather be doing right now,” he said sotto voce, one eyebrow quirking in a suggestive manner.
Julia had to suppress a gasp and wondered if the groom was thinking of including her in any of those ten things. She hadn’t realized until the beginning of the lesson just how handsome Alistair could be, especially in the setting of her mother’s ballroom. He was handsome out of doors, she knew, for from the first time she and Samantha had watched him from her bedchamber window, she thought his dark hair and bronzed skin made him look like a pirate she had seen in a painting. His wide shoulders, not at all in the style of a typical gentleman, would require custom tailoring for the topcoat she planned to order for his debut. She wondered about the color, deciding just then that he would wear black. No need to call too much attention to him as would happen if she choose a blue or green satin suit.
Although only one ring of candles were lit above them, sunshine spilled in from the bank of windows on the garden side, bathing the wood floor in yellow and gold light. Dust particles danced in the beams, seemingly keeping time with Monsieur Girard’s count and slowing their movements when the dancers were standing still, as they were now.
“You must concentrate, Mr. Comber,” the Frenchman announced. “Your partner should not take the blame for your mistake,” he added before clearing his throat. “From the top!”
Julia gave Alistair an apologetic glance and resumed her perfect pose. The dance master began his count. Alistair willed himself to concentrate, willed himself not to allow his gaze to fall too low, to take in the rise and fall of Julia’s bosom as she breathed, for he knew if he did, he would not only miss a step or two, but so would she. And they would be facing one another again and again for who knew how long until they mastered the blasted dance.
Although, the thought of facing Julia over and over again shouldn’t cause him such stress, he considered. She was pleasant to look upon – more than pleasant, in fact – and her demeanor seemed agreeable. She could have accused him of causing her to miss a step or two, but she instead took the blame on his behalf. When had a chit ever done that before?
So it was with a bit more enthusiasm that Alistair resumed the dance. And perhaps it was that very enthusiasm that caused him to get ahead of the beat of the metronome within moments. He stepped out of the dance and shook his head. “I apologize,’ he said as he held up a hand to stave off any comments from the dance master. He reached out and captured Julia’s hand, kissing the back of it before he continued where he left off.
Stunned by his move, Julia missed his cue and had to take a couple of extra steps to match him in the dance. She knew the dance master was about to berate her and held up her own hand much like Alistair had done. Aware of Monsieur Girard’s frown, she concentrated on her partner and blocked out any thought of the dance master. In a moment, she and Alistair were dancing in sync and in time to the metronome. Unfortunately, the metronome’s beat seemed to slow down with each bob of its pendulum until the things suddenly stopped. Even as Alistair continued the count verbally, it was Julia who finally looked over toward the dance master to discover he had fallen asleep – standing up!
“Shh!” she said as she brought a finger up to her lips.
Concentrating on how her lips looked just then, with her slender finger poised in front and nearly touching their plumpness, Alistair missed the sudden jerk of her head in Monsieur Girard’s direction. He raised an eyebrow in question.
Julia jerked her head again and Alistair turned to where the dance master stood. “Oh,” he mouthed, nodding his head. “Should we … continue?” he wondered, willing to create his own beat, if necessary.
Shaking her head, Julia rolled her eyes. “This is … this is a disaster,” she whispered to no one in particular.
Alarmed, Alistair furrowed his brows. “Now see here, we’re doing fine,” he tried to assure her.
“We’ll never get through all the dances you’ll need to know at this rate,” she countered, obviously upset.
Alistair glanced around, wanting to ensure there was no one within earshot. “Perhaps we’re going about this a bit … wrong,” he suggested. “When you say ‘all the dances’, which dances do I really need to know how to do?” he wondered. “It’s not as if I’ll be dancing every single dance at the ball.” Good grief, he hoped not. He usually spent more time in conversation than on the dance floor, making sure he was only committed to a few before the supper dance.
Julia’s eyes widened. “But you’ll need to know at least four or five,” she countered.
Alistair tried to hide his disappointment at hearing her words, but Julia noticed and crossed her arms. “You promised,” she said defiantly.
Not having promised her he would learn every dance done at a ton ball, Alistair had to bite back his first response. “I did,” he acknowledged. “And, I will,” he assured her. “But in the interest of actually getting through a complete dance, perhaps we should go about this a bit … differently,” he said carefully.
“Differently?” Julia repeated. “What are you suggesting?”
Alistair shrugged, glancing over to be sure the dance master was still asleep. How does he do that without falling down? he wondered. Horses do it, but they stand on four legs. “Is there someone who might be agreeable to actually play music during our lessons?” he asked quietly. “Your friend, perhaps?”
Julia seemed surprised by the idea, but she gave it some thought before shaking her head. “Lady Samantha doesn’t play the piano-forté, but my mother does,” she replied.
About to agree, Alistair then wondered if Lady Mayfield would recognize him. She knew his mother. She had been at Aimsley House on several occasions when he’d been there. She had seen him riding in Hyde Park, although it had been several years ago. Would she recognize him? They only see what they expect to see, he reminded himself. “Will you ask her if she might favor us with her skills then?” he wondered.
Julia lifted one shoulder as a blush seemed to creep up her face. “I will,” she agreed before she swallowed.
“What is it, my lady?” Alistair asked
, noticing her sudden embarrassment.
She dared another glance at the dance master. “Monsieur Girard is about to fall over. He’s leaning a bit too far to the left.”
Alistair turned his attention to the dance master and had to agree that the man was, indeed, about to fall over. If the sense of falling didn’t awaken him before he got his legs back under him, he would crash to the ballroom floor, perhaps damaging himself – or the floor – and certainly bumping his head in the process. “I’ll see to it,” Alistair said as he made his way to where Monsieur Girard stood. Reaching around to the back of the dance master, Alistair gave him a firm pat on the back and said, “Well done, Monsieur, I do believe I’ve got it!”
The dance master pitched forward but managed to catch himself and straighten in a move that befitted a man who taught others how to dance. His expression was rather wild, though, his eyes wide and rolling about as if he didn’t quite know where he was. Finally, he seemed to gather his thoughts and gave Alistair a firm nod. “If that is the case, Mr. Comber, then you shall prove it by doing the entire dance from the top without making a mistake,” the Frenchman said in an accent so thick Alistair could barely understand him.
“Now?” Alistair replied, his eyebrows furrowing. The lesson had already gone on far too long.
The dance master glanced about the room as if he hadn’t heard Alistair’s protest. “Of course, now,” he said firmly. He reached over to the metronome and wound the instrument, setting the pendulum to swinging in the monotonous beat for the Cotillion. “Form up,” he called out.
Alistair hurried over to where Julia stood, her eyes blazing. “How could you?” she asked in hoarse whisper.
Giving her his most apologetic shrug, Alistair said, “I apologize, my lady,” and positioned himself for the second attempt at completing the dance. “I thought he would end the lesson.”
Instead, Monsieur Girard’s standing catnap only made him more awake – and more aware – for the remainder of the excruciating lesson. When he had stopped the couple no less than five times before they were even halfway through the dance, Alistair could tell Julia’s composure was wilting. At any moment, she would say words no lady should speak in mixed company. Alistair knew this because he had witnessed his older sister’s occasional eruptions of anger when she had been pushed too far. He even had a scar from one such eruption, from where her fist had made contact near his right eyebrow. He rather doubted Julia would haul off and punch him with a closed fist – she would probably slap him with an open palm – but he didn’t want to tempt fate.
In an attempt to stave off Julia’s impending eruption, he imagined himself on a ballroom floor in the middle of one of Lady Worthington’s balls, executing the perfect Cotillion with his favorite partner from the days before he’d joined the army. Each step was perfectly placed, each movement of his hand precise, all to the rhythm of the metronome. When the dance finally ended, he bowed to a rather startled Julia.
“You did it perfectly,” she breathed, awe in her voice.
“As did you,” Alistair countered, taking her hand to kiss the back of it.
Julia widened her eyes as she watched Mr. Comber kiss her hand. When he let go and stood up, he turned to the dance master, apparently to bow to him when he suddenly stopped and stared. Julia followed his line of sight and sighed rather loudly when she witnessed what he was seeing.
Although he was leaning against the dais and was still on his feet, Monsieur Girard was sound asleep.
“Damn him,” Julia stated as she stomped a foot.
Alistair turned his attention back to his dance partner, a stunned look on his face. “My thoughts exactly, my lady,” he whispered. After giving her another bow, he took his leave of the room. He was halfway to the back door of the mansion when he heard Julia’s eruption, a combination of a scream and a yell of frustration followed by a rather satisfying thump and a male’s yowl of pain.
Alistair couldn’t keep a grin from his face as he returned to the stables.
Chapter 13
Parting is Not Such Sweet Sorrow
“I cannot stay in here any longer,” Sarah whispered, her lips caressing the side of Gabriel’s chest as she spoke. She had already been out of sight of the inn’s staff for more than two hours, a situation that might have someone sending out a search party. If she was found with the earl, who knew what would happen? She would probably lose her position. She would most definitely gain a reputation as a lightskirt, a reputation she had carefully and completely overcome since her last time with the Earl of Trenton. “I have probably already been missed,” she added, mostly to herself. She could only hope Margery was seeing to little Gabe.
Dozing and barely aware of where he was, Gabriel murmured something unintelligible and then used the arm her head was resting on to pull her closer. “Can you come back tonight?” he finally asked, kissing the top of her head. “I rather enjoy your lessons.”
Sarah allowed a grin before stretching her legs and her one free arm. She used the other to prop up her head as she regarded the earl. “I … I suppose,” she replied, using her free hand to rake her fingernails through his blond curls. “I know you don’t like it when I do this, but I find I cannot help myself,” she whispered playfully.
Gabriel opened one eye, a smirk appearing on his face. “Now, there you are quite mistaken, my lady,” he replied. How many times in the past year had he imagined her raking her fingers through his hair, lightly scraping his scalp so that shivers of pleasure danced over his head? Seeing her like this, the heel of her hand held against her forehead, her hair in a tumble of golden blonde waves around her shoulders, a lock of hair nearly covering one of her eyes, made him wish he could wake up to the sight of her every morning.
Sarah frowned. “You like it?”
His grin broadening, Gabriel nodded. “I dream of you doing it,” he murmured happily, his eyes closing again.
Sarah stared at the man in whose bed she once again found herself, stunned by his words. He had been appreciative the last time, paying handsomely her for her time and the tumble. Nothing had been said this time about compensation, and she found herself hoping he wouldn’t bring it up. After more than a year of celibacy, she didn’t want to be paid for what she enjoyed doing with the man. There could be no future for them, although she had at one time hoped he might ask her to take on the role of his mistress, at least until he was married.
Would she do so now, should he ask? He was pleasant to be with, and seemed to enjoy their time together as much as she did. He’d been a quick study when it came to kissing; the man was much improved over their first evening together. And he was handsome – too handsome for his own good, she considered. But would she agree to be his mistress?
I would, she decided.
Gabriel, his eyes still closed, wondered how to bring up the topic of his future. He needed a wife, and although he should have been back in London searching for one, the idea of doing so was so abhorrent, he couldn’t abide thinking of it. Especially when he had a candidate in Sarah. True, she wasn’t a peer of the realm, but at this point, he didn’t want one. As to whether or not she could execute the duties of a countess, he considered she was already doing similar duties as the manager of the inn. Of course she would make the perfect hostess for dinner parties and their guests, she could manage his households much like she managed the inn, and best of all, she was the perfect bed mate. A countess, a mistress and a wife, all in one, he thought with a smile.
“I have sworn off mistresses,” he murmured quietly, his eyes still closed.
Sarah stared at the earl for several moments, wondering if he could read her thoughts. A sense of disappointment settled over her, as if he had dismissed her with his simple statement. “Oh,” she answered finally, suddenly fighting back tears. She chided herself for allowing an overwhelming sense of sadness to settle over her. “Well then,” she said, trying to control her breathing so she wouldn’t let out a sob. “On that note, I will take my leave of you,�
� she said in a whisper.
Sliding off the bed, she quickly donned her chemise. Pulling up her corset over her hips, she was thankful she’d worn the one that tied in the front. She had the round gown over her head and settled onto her shoulders and over her hips in one quick move. Stepping into her slippers, she took one last look at the sleeping form of Gabriel Wellingham before unlocking the door and taking her leave of his room.
Once she was in the hallway, Sarah found she couldn’t control the tears. She made her way to her own room, intent on holding her son and allowing her tears to flow freely.
How could I have been such a fool? she wondered, wiping her tears on one sleeve as she reached for the door knob.
“He’s sound asleep,” Margery whispered as she entered the room.
Sarah had to stifle a gasp. She hadn’t been expecting the barmaid to be in her bedchamber. And, for a moment, she thought the girl referred to the earl.
“Has been for over an hour,” the barmaid added as she put down a set of knitting needles. “It’s time I get dressed for the supper crowd. Angus McElliott’s birthday is tomorrow, and I have reason to believe the party will start a bit early,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh?” Sarah answered as she checked on Gabe. The babe was breathing softly, his halo of blond curls surrounding his cherubic face. “I hope our earl won’t mind the noise too much,” she commented as she turned to find Margery staring at her. “What … What is it?” she asked, her brows furrowing.
“He fancies you,” Margery said with a grin.
Sarah stared back at the barmaid for perhaps a moment too long. “And what makes you say that?” She could feel her face flush with color. Damnation! Did any of the other inn’s employees know she’s been with the earl?
“I won’t tell a soul,” Margery claimed with a shake of her head. “I don’t think anyone else knows, but … I could just see it in his eyes … the way that he looked at you. He’s … he’s fond of you.”
My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy) Page 11
