Chapter 18 #2
The words emerged before he could stop them, carrying implications he wasn’t prepared to examine. Together. As though they were a unit rather than guardian and reluctant ward. As though her success mattered to him beyond mere duty.
They attempted another sequence with results marginally less disastrous. Lillian’s giggles suggested she found his awkwardness endearing rather than disappointing, and something in Edmund’s chest loosened at the sound.
She was laughing. His stern, frightened ward was actually laughing while attempting to dance with her notoriously difficult guardian.
When was the last time he’d heard genuine laughter in this house?
“More graceful,” Isadora said from somewhere behind him, and then her hand was on his shoulder.
Edmund froze completely. Every nerve in his body focused on that single point of contact—her palm settling against superfine with pressure so light it barely registered, yet burning through wool and linen to brand his skin.
“You’re holding yourself like you’re preparing for battle rather than guiding a young lady through simple steps.” Her voice was quiet, meant only for him, and the intimacy of it made his pulse stutter. “Relax your shoulders. Lower your elbow slightly. There—that’s better.”
Her fingers trailed down his arm, correcting the angle of his hand where it held Lillian’s.
The touch lasted mere seconds but sent heat racing through Edmund’s entire body with alarming intensity.
He could smell lavender and something sweeter—perhaps lemon from the biscuits they’d been eating.
Could feel the warmth of her presence at his back, close enough that if he turned his head slightly he’d be able to see the curve of her cheek, the soft skin of her throat.
He didn’t turn. He couldn’t trust himself to look at her when his entire being was screaming to forget the lesson, forget propriety, forget every reason he’d convinced himself that wanting her was impossible.
“Try again,” she murmured, stepping away before he could do something catastrophically foolish. “You’re doing remarkably well for someone who claims to be no dancing master.”
The praise shouldn’t have affected him. He was not an adolescent. He was a duke, a man who’d faced down Parliament and survived scandals that would have destroyed lesser men. Simple words of encouragement shouldn’t make his chest swell with something approaching pride.
Yet they did.
They moved through the sequence once more, and this time the steps came easier. Lillian’s confidence grew as she realized he wasn’t going to scold her for mistakes, and soon they were actually moving together rather than simply avoiding collision.
Edmund felt something unfamiliar stirring in his chest—not quite happiness, but adjacent to it. Something warm and almost painful in its intensity, as though muscles long unused were remembering how to function.
“I still don’t understand,” Lillian said after they’d completed several successful passes.
She pulled away with a pout that transformed her from earnest student into petulant child.
“The rhythm feels wrong when I try to lead with my own feet. Show me, Isadora. Demonstrate with him so I can watch how it’s supposed to look. ”
Edmund’s stomach dropped to somewhere around his boots.
Dance with Isadora? Touch her deliberately rather than through accidental contact? Maintain the sort of proximity required for proper form while pretending his pulse wasn’t hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest entirely?
“That’s hardly necessary—” he began, but his voice emerged rougher than intended.
“It’s an excellent suggestion,” Isadora interrupted, and he heard the challenge beneath her words. “If Lillian learns by observation, then observation she shall have.”
She moved closer with steps that suggested reluctance matched his own. But when she placed her hand in his—that small, elegant hand with its ink-stained fingers—Edmund felt something fundamental shift in his chest.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Her palm against his, warm and alive and utterly destroying whatever composure he’d been attempting to maintain.
He could feel her pulse through skin and glove, could sense the slight tremor that suggested she was as affected by this contact as he was.
Her other hand settled at his shoulder, light as breath but burning nonetheless. His own hand found her waist with movements that felt simultaneously practiced and entirely foreign, spanning the narrow curve beneath burgundy wool with fingers that trembled despite his best efforts at control.
They stood like that for one suspended heartbeat, close enough that he could count individual lashes framing hazel eyes gone wide with something between alarm and anticipation. The scent of lavender intensified, mingling with woodsmoke and pine until Edmund felt drunk on it.
She was so close. Close enough to see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, close enough to note the way her lips had parted slightly as though she’d forgotten to breathe. Close enough that if he leaned forward just a fraction, he could—
No. Absolutely not. That path led to destruction.
“The steps,” Isadora whispered, though whether reminding him or herself wasn’t clear.
Edmund began to move, and she followed with the sort of natural grace that made leading effortless.
Forward—their bodies aligned perfectly despite the careful distance they maintained.
Side—her skirts brushed his legs with whispers that felt indecent in their intimacy.
Together—they moved as though they’d danced together a thousand times rather than this being their first.
The melody Isadora had been humming filled his head, though neither of them sang now.
Around them, the drawing room receded until nothing existed except the two of them moving together in perfect synchronization.
His hand at her waist felt every breath she took, every slight shift of weight, the rapid rhythm of her pulse that matched his own frantic beating.
This was madness. Pure madness. They were supposed to be demonstrating steps for Lillian’s benefit, maintaining appropriate distance while fulfilling their roles as guardian and ward supervisor. Nothing more and nothing less.
But there was nothing appropriate about the heat building between them. Nothing educational about the way his fingers tightened fractionally against her waist, or how her hand on his shoulder seemed to burn through every layer between them.
Her eyes met his, and Edmund’s heart skipped a beat when he read the emotion in the depths thereof. The same desire, the same fear, the same terrible recognition that whatever they’d agreed their marriage would be, it was rapidly becoming something far more dangerous.
They completed the sequence, coming to rest in proper final position. But neither moved immediately. Edmund’s hand remained at her waist, her fingers still rested on his shoulder, and the space between them felt charged with possibilities he had no business considering.
He should release her. He should step back and restore the careful distance that kept them both safe from whatever was building in the charged air between them.
But he couldn’t make himself let go. Couldn’t force his fingers to release the narrow span of her waist, or his other hand to drop hers. For one wild moment, he considered what would happen if he simply pulled her closer, eliminated the careful inches separating them, and—
“You see?” Isadora said suddenly, her voice emerging rougher than usual.
She stepped back with movements that suggested retreat rather than simple conclusion, breaking contact with enough force to make Edmund’s hands feel empty and cold.
“Like that. The rhythm becomes natural when both partners understand their roles.”
She turned away quickly—too quickly, confirming that whatever he’d felt during those charged moments, she’d experienced as well. Her hand pressed against flushed cheeks while she moved to the room’s edge, putting safe distance between them with movements that spoke of panic barely contained.
Edmund wanted to follow her. Wanted to close that distance and demand she acknowledge what was building between them, wanted to confess that he’d been lying when he called their marriage meaningless.
But Lillian was clapping her hands with enthusiasm that suggested she’d missed the undercurrents entirely. “Again! With me this time. I want to try while it’s fresh in my mind.”
Edmund resumed position opposite his ward with movements that felt mechanical. His entire being remained focused on Isadora standing at the room’s edge, her breathing still rapid, her expression shifting too quickly to read.
What had just happened? What alchemy had occurred in those few charged moments when they’d moved together across polished floors?
“Ready?” Lillian asked, bouncing slightly with eagerness that pulled him back to the present.
“Ready,” Edmund confirmed, though he felt anything but.
They began the sequence again, and immediately his awkwardness returned.
Without Isadora’s grace to guide him, he moved like the soldier he’d been—all rigid precision without the fluidity that transformed steps into dance.
Lillian followed gamely, but her confidence flagged as his stiffness communicated itself through their joined hands.
“Sorry,” she murmured when they nearly collided. “I’m not—”
“You’re doing perfectly,” he assured her, forcing his attention to remain on his ward rather than the woman watching from the shadows. “The fault is mine. I’m rather out of practice at anything requiring grace.”
“That’s not true. You were lovely when dancing with Lady Isadora.”
The observation was delivered with the brutal honesty of youth, and Edmund felt heat climbing his neck. Had it been that obvious? Had Lillian witnessed the way he’d held Isadora, the hunger that had surely shown in his face during those moments when his guard had dropped completely?
They attempted another sequence, and this time disaster struck properly. Lillian stepped forward as Edmund moved back, and her foot came down squarely on his boot with enough force to make them both freeze.
“Oh no!” Her eyes widened and she slammed her hands over her mouth. “Uncle Edmund, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
The apology died at once as Edmund began to laugh.
Though it started as a chuckle, it soon grew. His entire body shook with it, years of tension releasing in waves that left him breathless and somehow lighter than he’d felt since before James died.
“You should see your face,” he managed between gasps, one hand still holding Lillian’s while the other pressed against his chest as though he could contain the laughter physically.
“As though you’d committed murder rather than simply demonstrating what I’ve been telling you—everyone makes mistakes when learning. ”
Lillian stared at him for one suspended moment, her expression shifting from horror to wonder to something approaching delight.
Then she began laughing too—bright giggles that transformed her entire bearing from frightened student into joyful child discovering that her fearsome guardian possessed actual humanity beneath his stern exterior.
They stood together in the center of the drawing room, laughing like fools over a misstep that would have earned sharp correction under any other circumstances. And Edmund felt something crack wide open in his chest—some wall he’d built so carefully around whatever remained of his capacity for joy.
When was the last time he’d laughed like this? Really laughed, with his entire body rather than just polite amusement? Before the duel, certainly. Before James’s blood had stained his hands and society had branded him dangerous.
Before he’d convinced himself that feeling anything was weakness.
From the corner where she’d retreated, Isadora watched with an expression that made Edmund’s breath catch despite his laughter.
She was smiling—not the careful, diplomatic expression she employed for social occasions, but something genuine and warm that reached all the way to her eyes and transformed her entire face.
She’d witnessed his first true smile since James’s death. Had watched the Dangerous Duke transform into something approaching human through the simple act of dancing badly with his ward.
And the wonder in her eyes suggested she understood the significance of what she was seeing.
The laughter gradually subsided, leaving Edmund feeling wrung out and strangely peaceful. Lillian was still giggling softly, her hand in his, looking up at him with an expression he’d never seen directed his way—something that looked uncomfortably like affection.
“Again?” she asked hopefully. “I promise to aim for the floor this time rather than your feet.”
Edmund glanced toward Isadora, seeking permission or guidance or perhaps just wanting to see that warm smile directed his way. She nodded encouragingly, her eyes still holding that soft wonder that made his chest ache.
“Again,” he agreed, and this time when they moved through the steps, he found himself actually enjoying the process rather than merely enduring it.
And if his attention kept drifting toward the woman watching from the shadows, well. That was a complication he’d address later.
Or possibly never.
Probably never.
But for now—for this one stolen afternoon in a drawing room decorated with Christmas cheer—Edmund allowed himself to simply exist. To laugh with his ward, to meet his wife’s eyes across polished floors, to imagine that perhaps joy wasn’t entirely beyond his reach after all.