by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
“Miss Grant, I assure you it is not that I don’t wish to—” He waved his hands in the air as though the words were somewhere out there. “It is just that,” he continued, only to stop and shake his head. “You will see. Lady Euphemia, you will most definitely see as well, and then you will rid yourself of this foolish notion.”
Henry didn’t think things could get worse, but then Effie got it into her head that he should be dancing with Miss Grant, and he could feel his face turn hot as he contemplated it—holding her, being close to her, stepping on her feet. He wanted to be doing two of the three things, but not enough to cause her any pain or embarrassment, and both things would occur if they danced. Plus they’d only just met the day before, and all he knew about her was that she seemed to have a secret, sly wit and her looks appealed to him in a way he’d never felt before.
He hadn’t been lying to Effie when he said he didn’t know how to dance. He’d been taught, many times, but just couldn’t get the steps right. Ever. Eventually, Felicity had banned him from the exercise since she was tired of having her toes mauled.
“Well, Mr. Dawkins,” Miss Grant said as she regarded him, another one of those half smiles on her lips, “I suppose we should attempt this, since Lady Euphemia will not take no for an answer. I promise I have very sturdy toes,” she said as she stepped toward him, holding her arms out from her body.
Henry swallowed, bracing himself as she walked closer. He kept his eyes focused on hers, not wanting to slide his gaze down her figure because he already knew the effect she had on him.
Not that looking at her face was a hardship, either; her mouth was as lush and curved as the rest of her, and her brown eyes seemed to hold a spark of humor, a glimmer of something that promised fun, if he could just figure out how to unlock it.
He should not be figuring out any unlocking at all. Nor even thinking about it.
He held his arms out as well and she stepped into them, the skirts of her dress—another abysmal color he couldn’t help noticing—brushing his legs.
He placed his hand at her waist as she put hers on his shoulder. They clasped their other hands together and then just stood there.
“I believe here is where you are to hum, Miss Grant,” Henry said at last, feeling like the stupidest clod in the world.
“That’s correct, you have to hum, Katherine,” Effie ordered from where she stood, about ten feet away. Henry had nearly forgotten she was still there, since he was so engrossed in not staring at certain parts of Miss Grant. He wondered if this was the first time someone had overlooked Effie’s presence.
Henry was just wondering what Effie would do if he admitted to having forgotten about her when Miss Grant spoke. “Certainly. Humming is one of those skills young ladies are taught in the schoolroom. I can do that.”
“Was it?” Henry asked, surprised enough that he actually spoke.
She laughed, shaking her head. “No, although we learned plenty of other fairly useless skills. Do you know I can ask for more sugar in both French and Italian?”
“Impressive,” Henry replied, enjoying how her eyes lit up even more when she was speaking.
“Any time now,” Effie’s impatient voice cut through the moment, and Henry nearly jumped. Thank goodness he hadn’t, since he likely would have landed on Miss Grant’s foot, and he did not want her not to be able to dance either.
Although her foot would improve. He had no hope of his dancing ever being improved, no matter what Effie said.
He forgot about that when Miss Grant followed Effie’s directive and began to hum, the same tune she’d played on the piano. He took a deep breath and began to move, wishing again that he was smaller, nimbler, and actually not in this room at all doing this thing.
But that would mean he wouldn’t be holding Miss Grant’s hand, which he did rather like doing.
But he couldn’t talk to her now. Not only because she was humming, so she couldn’t respond, but also because he was concentrating on counting the steps in his head, and if he stopped doing that, he would surely step on her somehow.
This was delicious agony, if such a thing could be said to exist. The delicious part? To be holding her hand, to possibly share a sense of humor—even though he had yet to display his, but he had shown his appreciation for hers. To be dancing in Euphemia’s company, as he desperately tried not to reveal just how much more he admired Effie’s companion than Effie herself, was the agony part of it.
“Oh, drat,” Effie said, interrupting the humming as well as Henry’s dangerously conflicted thoughts. “I forgot I promised to take a drive with my father this afternoon. I must go get ready, if you’ll excuse me.” She waved her hands toward them. “You can continue as you were. And Katherine,” she continued, “could you walk with Henry to the shop and pick up more of those blue ribbons we selected? I think they will look lovely on Mother’s second-best hat.”
Miss Grant’s expression changed to one of confusion, and her mouth opened as though to speak, but then her eyes narrowed and she snapped it shut again.
Henry was just grateful it appeared he would no longer have to dance.
“Of course, Lady Euphemia,” Miss Grant said. “Do have a lovely time with your father.”
Euphemia smirked, and Henry wondered if she was actually going to drive with her father—or perhaps had arranged to meet with some other gentleman, and was using their appointment as a cover for her subterfuge. But then why involve him? And make it seem as though she continued to be interested in him?
He could live to be a thousand years old, and yet he didn’t think he would ever understand women.
Effie waved at them again and was out the door in seconds, leaving them standing together in the middle of the vast empty room, still holding hands, poised as though to dance again.
Miss Grant snatched her hands away and put them behind her back, looking down at the floor, but not so much that Henry didn’t see the wash of color on her face.
It was good to know they had blushing in common as well.
“What do you—?” Miss Grant began, only to shake her head and stop speaking.
“There are so many ways I could answer that, Miss Grant.” Now that he no longer had to dance, or move at all, he felt much more comfortable. And also somewhat scandalously and inappropriately delighted that he and Miss Grant were alone together.
Did Effie consider her companion so old that there was no need for chaperones? Or since she was a chaperone, she had no need of one?
Not only did Henry not understand women, he didn’t understand the careful societal constraints under which they operated. But if this meant that he could be alone with someone who didn’t make him feel short of breath, or entirely awkward, then he didn’t care.
“I could think that perhaps you were wanting to know, ‘What do you want to do now?’ and I would have to answer, ‘Not dance.’ Or maybe it was ‘What do you think of the weather today?’ and I would say it is temperate, and surprisingly sunny. Or ‘What do you find to be most uncomfortable—being in a room with a complete stranger alone, or being forced to dance with a complete stranger in a room while someone watches you?’”
Her expression froze, and he continued.
“That is it, isn’t it?” He shook his head in mock dismay. “And here I thought you wished to know what we should do, and if the weather was conducive enough to support those efforts.”
She grinned, and he smiled back, surprised that he had been able to put together a few sentences that weren’t idiotic and didn’t also manage to insult her. Maybe there was hope for him yet.
“I am not certain what answer is best to that last question,” she said with a laugh, “just that you and I, complete strangers though we are, are in complete agreement.”
He gestured to the door. “Shall we walk to my sister’s shop, since it seems that that is what Lady Euphemia requires? It would take us out of the room, which would remove one of the issues.”
Miss Grant nodded, and he felt his c
hest relax as he let go of a deep breath. Not that he was breathless at being in her company—only damn, it seemed he was.
Chapter Four
Well. As though she hadn’t found him attractive before when he was just an awkward handsome man, now she found him irresistible. He was still awkward, but in such an endearing way it made her heart kind of wobbly.
As well as her legs, and other parts of her as well.
But a lady, even if she was only an impoverished lady companion to a raving beauty, did not admit to feelings in Other Parts.
Other Parts were for Other Women. Women who could be ladies, yes, but women who had hopes of finding love with the gentlemen who caused those feelings.
She had no such hopes. Mr. Dawkins was a nice man, and definitely caused those feelings—no matter how inappropriate they were—but she knew full well she was not the type of lady he would ever wish to be with. She was accustomed to men looking at her, assessing, surveying, and making her feel as though she were being scrutinized, and most often found lacking (or too much, if she were to be honest with herself).
Long before this, when there had been more funds and fewer curves, she had entertained a few thoughts of what it would be like to be a wife, a mother. But she’d pushed all those dreams aside when it became clear that there was not enough money to live on, not if she wanted to keep her curves and not starve. And she might wish she were smaller, sometimes, but not so much as to wish to waste away from not eating.
And because of her choices, she still got glances from men, men whose gazes drifted from her irrepressible hair to her even more irrepressible figure.
But he kept his eyes focused on hers, not even drifting.
She wished he would drift. Even to let her know he’d seen her, not just thought of her as a companion to his persistent and stubborn childhood friend.
It was wrong, no doubt, that she wanted from him what she had gotten from so many others, and not wanted it then.
Perhaps it just proved how perverse she was. She sighed, then realized she hadn’t replied to Mr. Dawkins. Had he just been standing there, waiting for her?
“Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry, yes, let us walk to your sister’s shop and collect those very important ribbons.” She fluttered her hands as she spoke, but he still kept his eyes locked on hers, despite her general waving about.
Perhaps he was just very, very focused?
And why did that thought make her get all shivery in that Other Parts Feelings way?
She swallowed and nodded, mostly because of course she had to emphasize her agreement with general hand-waving and head-nodding. She should exit the room before she decided she would entertain Mr. Dawkins with her pirouettes.
Just because she could dance better than he did not mean she should be pirouetting at any time.
“Well, then, let us go, shall we?” She plastered a smile on her face, trying hard not to allow her gaze to travel over him. But it was so, so difficult, because he was just so much there, and handsome, and there was so much of him.
Even her thoughts were nonsensical.
She strode ahead of him wishing she could just burst into flames of embarrassment and be done with it.
Henry followed Miss Grant out of the room, at last relaxing his vigilance and letting himself look at all of her.
Her dress was plain, but at least it fit relatively well. Her figure was lush and appealing, to him at least, and his hand still tingled from the contact with hers. Neither of them had been wearing gloves, which would have been scandalous from someone who wasn’t a mere bookkeeper and a lady’s companion, but he was grateful for the lack of fabric between them.
And it seemed she was just as awkward at times as he, despite her initial ability to converse. That made him feel another type of kinship with her, something that set something off low and warm inside. And not just there, although there was certainly interested as well.
It wasn’t that she was particularly beautiful, even though she was definitely pretty. It was that she looked approachable, touchable, and he suspected that he wouldn’t squash her with his size, should he happen to accidentally fall on her or otherwise bash her with his body somehow.
There was something to be said for that kind of attribute in a woman. The ‘not getting flattened when accidentally fallen upon’ attribute.
He chuckled to himself as they walked into the main room, where the imperious butler was already waiting with his hand on the door. No doubt Euphemia had informed him they would be departing soon.
One of the footmen arrived with Miss Grant’s coat, and Henry took it from the man before he could be the one to put it on her, instead holding it out for her to thrust her arms into. She smiled up at him, and he felt the smile all the way down to his toes. Which reminded him—he hadn’t stepped on her toes, had he? Maybe there was hope for him yet.
Or maybe he had found the perfect partner.
Which was far too dangerous as well as a treacherous line of thought.
The idea of it clung to his brain, even as they began the twenty-minute or so walk back to his sister’s shop. That she was perfect, for him, even though the thought terrified him. He couldn’t find anyone, not now, not when his family needed him. Not when he was accustomed to being the enormous oaf whom ladies admired but didn’t want to actually speak to. To get to know. And yet it seemed she did.
“When did you arrive in London, Mr. Dawkins?” She glanced at him from under the brim of her bonnet, and he was grateful for the opportunity to look at her again. She really was pretty. “Or have you been here forever as well, like me?” She smiled in a teasing way, but not as though she were offended by his idiocy of the day before. More as though they were sharing a mutual joke.
Oh, how he hoped they were sharing a mutual joke, and that smile wasn’t just her disguise for “I cannot stand being in this gentleman’s company, I have to tolerate it for now, and I cannot be rude.”
Maybe that was why she was walking so quickly? That is, she wasn’t walking too quickly for him—nobody could, his long legs ate up miles like a hungry child confronted with sweets—but he hadn’t had to slow his stride to allow for her to keep up.
“I—well, my mother came here from France and settled in London.” That didn’t answer the question, did it? And here she was likely thinking he wasn’t a complete idiot. “And she opened the shop, the dress shop that my sister is running now. I was born here, and we’ve lived in London all during that time.”
There. That did answer the question.
Only now it was time for him to ask something, and he didn’t know what to choose—“Are you as uncomfortable as I am?” was hardly something any lady would wish to answer. And how could she possibly answer that without making both of them more uncomfortable?
“How long have you known Lady Euphemia?” There. That seemed safe enough.
“About three months.” She paused, and the hand on his sleeve tightened. “Her parents asked me to assist her in her come-out. It is my responsibility to keep her out of any inappropriate situations.” She stopped walking, and turned to look up at him. “I do hope that her acquaintance with you will not cause one of those.”
He didn’t process her words for a few moments, too engrossed in looking at her, and when he did, he felt his entire body heat up, and knew his face was more vividly-hued than any of the fabrics in his sister’s shop.
Her eyes widened, and then she, too, blushed, only the pink on her cheeks merely made her look prettier. “Oh my goodness, Mr. Dawkins, you must think me the rudest person!” She slid her fingers down his arm to clasp his hand. “I know you have no such intentions toward Lady Euphemia, it is just that she is so impetuous, and persuasive, and I wished to warn you.” She shook her head, her face bearing an expression he’d seen often in his own looking glass—one with equal parts mortification and annoyance. She took a deep breath, and Henry worked hard not to glance down at where her lungs, and other parts, were. “Warn you that Lady Euphemia is likely to rope y
ou into something that you don’t wish to do—”
“Such as dancing?” he interrupted, then wished he had just kept his mouth shut. Because now her pink blush turned a fiery red, and he realized what his words could mean to her, especially if she was as awkward inside as he was.
“Not that dancing with you is something I don’t wish to—” he began, then dropped her hand and flung his arms in the air. “Look, I cannot say anything without getting it wrong.”
“We have that in common,” she muttered.
“Yes!” he said, reclaiming her hand. “We do have that in common. It is already so different from my conversations with most ladies. And we’ve only just met. Imagine how many more wrong things I can say to you as we get to know one another.”
Her lips curled in a tentative smile. “Does that mean you wish to get to know me?”
This he could answer without getting it wrong. “Yes.”
For the first time in her life, she wished she could just kiss someone. And then wondered why it had never crossed her mind before. Because if she were kissing someone, she wouldn’t have to worry about what to say—her mouth would be occupied.
But probably the reason it had never occurred to her was that she had never met a man she had wanted to kiss, not until she’d met Henry. He was so endearing, and handsome, and large. Not that it seemed he had any interest in kissing her; he was charming, in his entirely awkward way, but his eyes didn’t travel anywhere but her face, and she wished that didn’t bother her, even though it bothered her the other way when men did let their gazes wander.
Perhaps she was never to be satisfied, no matter what happened.
But then the thoughts of satisfaction made her think of those Other Parts, and what’s more, of Other Things, Things she shouldn’t know of, but did, because she wasn’t completely ignorant. Even though she was in a physical sense completely ignorant. Given that she had never even thought about kissing someone, much less those Other Things.
