Page 17 of Winter's Waltz
“I deserve that,” he acknowledged. “And you are right in noting there were many occasions in my past where I should have admitted defeat and surrendered. However, this is not one of them.”
“There are likely chickens you could teach to dance with greater ease than myself.”
“Yes, but would the chickens insult me, knock me in the nose, and threaten me with knives?” he teased.
She pursed her lips, the action not doing one thing to aid his restraint. “Are you saying you find me entertaining, Dunderhead?”
Massively.
And delicious. But he was keeping that to himself for now.
“I am saying that you are interesting. That is all.” He renewed his determination to teach her to dance. “But that is quite enough chatter for now, Miss Winter. We have a waltz to dance.”
“Hmm,” was all she said.
Not a curse. Nor an insult.
“Watch my feet,” he instructed. “We shall go slowly this time.”
Then, he began guiding them. She stepped on his toes thrice. Having her in such proximity was pure torture. She smelled of flowers. A garden in bloom. Her scent was completely at odds with the rest of her. A mystery wrapped in a conundrum.
“Forgive me,” she said when she trampled his toes a fourth time. “Surely you must see I am a hopeless cause.”
“Do you thinkIam one, Miss Winter?” he asked her, quite seriously, forcing her to hold his stare.
She did not look away. Brilliant blue dazzled him.
“No,” she admitted at last. “I do not believe anyone is, including you, Marquess.”
He could work with that. Yes, indeed.
“Then let us keep trying.” He tightened his grip on her waist. She was not wearing gloves—of course she wasn’t—and the sensation of her bare skin upon his was driving him to the edge of madness. “Follow the beats. One, two, three…”
They worked in pained silence for a few minutes. A few more mishaps occurred. But at last, they began to move with greater fluidity. Miss Winter seemed to be grasping the motions.
“Where is the music?” she asked after a time.
Once more, he suppressed his smile. Obligingly, he began to hum, and they moved about the room, whirling as one. Several missteps later, their dance became almost elegant. Their bodies were in unison, and there was an inherent rightness about holding this woman in his arms, about dancing with her. She was a quick study, Miss Genevieve Winter. He could not say he was surprised.
However, when they moved into the faster portion of the dance, arms closer around each other, spinning in circles as they navigated the room, their feet became tangled once more. This time, there was no correcting his balance. They tumbled together, Max scarcely managing to turn them so he bore the brunt of the fall. He landed on his back, with Miss Winter atop him. He loved the weight of her, the collision of her feminine curves with his masculine planes.
Her palms flattened on his chest. Her face hovered over his, eyes wide.
“Seems we took a spill,” she said, sounding breathless.
Very interesting indeed.
Miss Genevieve Winter was surly. She was claws and bared teeth and growls. She was not breathless. Except she was now, and he loved that, too.
“You are hell-bent upon injuring me, are you not?” he teased.
A gentleman would have let her go. But Max’s hold on her tightened, making certain she would stay where she was. Since when had he been a gentleman?
“I am innocent this time, I swear it.” She was smiling back at him, stealing his own breath.
Making his heart thud in his chest.
Forcing a bolt of desire straight to his hardening cock.
