Page 16 of Winter's Waltz
She moved again. He slid his arm around her waist and drew her toward him, until they were almost flush against each other. And then he guided her hand around him, before catching the other and lacing their fingers together and raising them above their heads.
“I will step on your feet,” she warned.
He bit back a smile. “Do your worst, empress. You shan’t hurt me, I promise.”
Max could have kissed her then, but he did not. He began to hum. A fairly convincing waltz, he felt. He had an excellent singing voice and he knew it. One of few victories he could claim, as it happened.
“Youare the music?”
A mere lowering of his head, and his lips would seal with hers. But she was skittish. She required further wooing, and he knew it. There was something about Genevieve Winter which was not just different.
Original.
The word came to him, and he seized it, for the descriptor was apt. He knew instinctively he would never meet another woman like her.
He stopped humming. “Yes, I am the music. Do you mind? I have been told my voice is passable on more than one occasion.”
“Oh.” Her gaze had fallen to his mouth. She blinked, a tinge of pink on her cheekbones as she swallowed and seemed to collect herself. “Your voice is…pleasant enough, I suppose.”
Ha!High praise indeed coming from Miss Genevieve Winter. He would take it.
And he had decided he would takeher.
But not yet. He had time for that. Three more weeks. And longer, a man could hope. He did not think three weeks with this woman would be nearly sufficient.
“Then I shall burden your ears with my humming, and you shall follow my lead,” he told her.
Without waiting for her to answer, he took action, humming and guiding them in a turn. He had never taught anyone to dance before, and Christ knew he was far from a dance master, but he reasoned the movements and the rhythm would be easiest to learn first. Then the steps.
However, he quickly discovered he was wrong.
Their feet somehow became intertwined, and she tripped him. Max narrowly avoided taking a tumble to the floor and dragging her down too.
“Perhaps some footwork first,” he decided.
“I attended a ball once, you know,” she said, chin going up in pugnacious fashion.
He could not contain his surprise. “You did?”
“Aye.” She gave a jerky nod. “Wore a gown, too. Just two months ago, it was. The Christmastide celebration at Abingdon Hall.”
Ah, yes. That would make sense. The Winter family celebrations.
“Did you dance?” he asked.
“No.” She looked sheepish as she made the admission. “I am a hopeless cause, Blunderbury. Even you must admit it.”
“I do not acknowledge defeat.”
“Little wonder you lost all your money at the Sutton hell,” she said.
And she was not wrong.
How could he explain the thrill wagering his blunt had given him? All his life, he had been hounded by his father. Molded and shaped and told what to do. Reprimanded for the slightest infraction.You are the future duke, was the reminder, the incessant rebuke. You are the heir.
But he had never been good enough for his father. Too stupid, too loud, too lazy. Too much the opposite of the mold his father would have made him in. Gaming, taking chances, drinking, whoring—those had become his solaces.
Until he had lost himself along the way, and until he had almost lost his sisters as well.
