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Katherine fully expected Euphemia’s parents would balk at having Mr. Dawkins reenter their daughter’s life, but apparently not—Effie had taken her mother aside and whispered something that made her mother brighten up and nod, and that was it.
He was to help Effie dance, even though he did not dance himself and Effie’s own dance skills were already well-honed, since she’d been attending balls in the country from the age of sixteen.
It was such a clear subterfuge it seemed ridiculous.
“It’s nearly three,” Effie pointed out, as though she hadn’t been reporting on the time since noon. “I told Hen—Mr. Dawkins three o’clock, and he is not here yet.”
“It is nearly three,” Katherine reminded her. “Not three right now. He should,” she began, but stopped when she heard the knock on the door.
Thank goodness Mr. Dawkins was prompt. She did not want to have to listen to Euphemia report on the time every other minute.
“Lady Euphemia, your guest is here.” The Kilchesters’ butler did not look pleased at Mr.
Dawkins’s arrival. Unlike Effie, who positively beamed.
“Show him into the ballroom, Jenkins, and please make sure we are not disturbed.” Euphemia gestured to Katherine to follow, then both ladies made their way to the ballroom.
Each time Katherine saw it, she felt a pang of—of loss, or wishing, or regret. The room was enormous, empty of any furniture except for a few chairs against the wall and a piano in one corner. The windows were huge as well, going from floor to ceiling, with heavy green velvet curtains covering them. Effie had ordered that the curtains be pulled back, so the light—meager though it was, given that it was London, after all—streamed through the windows, throwing a golden glow on the polished wooden floor.
It was a room devoted to pleasure, designed only to provide adequate space and a lovely surrounding for parties. For events where every lady would have a dance partner, and the drinks would be sparkling and bubbly, as would the conversation. Where someone like Katherine, even, could find a moment of pleasure herself, a relief from her everyday cares and worries.
It wouldn’t ever happen, not here, not anywhere, which was likely why the room filled her with such regret. She was well past the age of such fancies, and yet she had never experienced them in the first place, so her imagination insisted on dreaming up scenarios where she would be the belle of the ball, which was laughable, not when females like Effie existed, not when Katherine herself was so old, poor, and not attractive to marriage-minded men.
“Katherine, would you mind playing the piano?” Effie gestured to the corner where the instrument stood. “Henry, that is, Mr. Dawkins,” she said with one of her delightful giggles, “you just stand there, and we can begin. Oh, I do so love dancing,” she said, clapping her hands together in her enthusiasm.
Katherine suspected that what she really loved was the opportunity to capture Mr. Dawkins’s interest, but she dutifully made her way to the piano and sat down, flexing her fingers.
“Play that waltz that I can never remember the name of,” Effie said as she smiled up at Mr.
Dawkins.
Mr. Dawkins, Katherine noticed, didn’t smile back as much as grimace. Perhaps it wasn’t that he hadn’t learned to dance so much as he just wasn’t able to? In which case, Effie’s toes would take a beating, since Mr. Dawkins was so much larger.
And that led to some very inappropriate thoughts. She’d wondered if she’d exaggerated his largeness and general good looks, but no, she definitely hadn’t. If anything, in the nearly empty room he looked even more massive, as though he were a Greek statue come to life.
Come to life to dance with Euphemia. Katherine sighed and turned her attention to the music.
She hadn’t had cause to play much, not since taking up residence at the Kilchesters’ house. Before, when she was Effie’s age, she had played the piano and sketched watercolors and done all those things genteel young ladies did to show their gentility.
She had yet to meet a gentleman who was passionate about a lady’s ability to stitch neatly, but if such a gentleman were to exist, perhaps she could dazzle him with her talent.
And while she was dreaming, perhaps she could find a gentleman who didn’t assume that her hair color and generous figure meant that she was wanton.
“Faster!” Euphemia’s voice interrupted her thoughts, thank goodness, since the last thing she needed was to continue being mournful about her lot in life. She had a home, currently, her duties weren’t too onerous—even if they could be aggravating—and she was able to enjoy the benefits of regarding Mr. Dawkins.
“Yes, of course,” Katherine replied, taking a quick look over her shoulder.
The two were dancing, sort of, but it appeared that Effie had taken the lead, while Mr. Dawkins looked as though he were trying to tiptoe, which looked almost ridiculous, especially on someone as large as he was.
But it was only almost ridiculous, because honestly, the man was so impressive-looking he could have been playing leapfrog and still look handsome. His face was screwed up in concentration and what looked like embarrassment. No wonder he was embarrassed, since he obviously could not dance.
“This way, Henry,” Effie said in her impatient tone of voice. Katherine smothered a grin at seeing just how quickly Euphemia’s need to have things go the way she wanted them to overshadowed her desire to appear ... desirable.
“I can’t,” Mr. Dawkins replied, sounding equally aggrieved.
It was obvious that the two had known each other for some time. Actually, they behaved more like brother and sister than anything romantic.
Katherine shrugged, returning her attention to the music. It wasn’t her place to categorize Euphemia’s relationships. Although actually it was, since it was Katherine’s responsibility to keep her from embarking on anything unsuitable.
But given how Mr. Dawkins seemed to regard Effie, she didn’t think she had much to be concerned about.
“Here, you try dancing with him.” Euphemia’s pouty tone took on a much more sinister meaning when Katherine understood what she was saying.
She shook her head without even thinking about it, playing a very strident chord in the process. “I have to play for you, I know you do not enjoy playing, Lady Euphemia.” Perhaps if she reminded Effie that it was Katherine’s place to take the less pleasant tasks, she wouldn’t make her dance with Mr. Dawkins.
Who, she could see, looked just as discomfited as she felt, which made her feel worse. Was the prospect of dancing with her so terrible? No, you idiot, he just doesn’t like to dance. He isn’t thinking of you at all.
Which also made her feel worse.
“No, you don’t need to play.” Euphemia came to stand beside her, her arms crossed over her chest. “You can just hum as you dance. I insist.” Judging by her tone—and by the fact that the girl was the most stubborn person Katherine had ever met—she knew it was either comply now, or comply in half an hour after hearing a litany of reasons why she should comply. And since she had no idea if Mr. Dawkins had any other engagements that day, she took the path of least resistance, rising from her seat and glancing toward the gentleman in question.
“Effie.” He paused and looked skyward, heaving a deep breath that made his chest and shoulders seem even broader, “Lady Euphemia, that is, this is not going to work. I cannot dance. I told you that.” “You can’t give up now.” Euphemia sounded resolute. And she should—probably the last time she
had been told no was when he had told her no three years ago.
Maybe it was just as well Katherine wasn’t a raving beauty. Imagine being so spoilt that one assumed everyone would do as she asked.
Oh, now that would be a hardship, Katherine thought to herself, a wry smile curling her lips. Poor Euphemia. Too beautiful to ever be denied.
“Fine.” Mr. Dawkins glanced at Katherine, as though just realizing that she was there. His cheeks started to turn pink, and Katherine resisted smiling even more at how adorably odd it looked on such a male specimen. Blushing, of all things. All because he did not want to dance with her. Or anyone, it seemed.
“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 gown—another abysmal color he couldn’t help notice—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 chest 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.