SEVENTEEN #2
A grimace touched his lips. “I should hate to raise expectations in that quarter. Miss Liston does not deserve to have her affections treated as a sport.”
“One dinner party will not bind you to courting Miss Liston. But it will enable you to practice being in company and to become better acquainted with the lady.”
“Very well.” He set the invitation down. “I shall accept it.”
They stared at one another. He appeared the perfect gentleman in an immaculately cut jacket with the right arm pinned up, starched cravat, embroidered waistcoat, and pressed trousers.
Only the location in which he stood appeared amiss.
He belonged in a London drawing room, not a castle buried in the Scottish Highlands.
“I thought we could perhaps begin with a minuet,” Cecily said, forcing her eyes away from him. “It is usually the first dance of a ball and the most intricate to learn.”
“I know some of the steps,” he admitted. “My mother insisted on a dancing master for Gray, and I slipped in beside him for a lesson or two. It didn’t last long. In particular, I don’t understand how to navigate not having a right hand.”
The minuet involved continuous hand-holding and twirls, as did most country dances.
“I have considered that. You have two choices. One, you could permit the lady to hold onto your stump, in lieu of your hand. Or, you could ask the lady to simply pretend that your hand is there and perform the steps accordingly.”
“Her hand clutching air?”
“Yes.”
He pondered the options for a long moment. “Pity Lord Nelson didn’t include this particular problem and solution in his biography. Can we try both options, so I can determine which feels most natural?”
“Of course.”
They pushed back the map table in the center of the room to make more space. Cecily then spent a few minutes demonstrating the steps and pattern of the dance. Unsurprisingly, Matthias quickly learned the figures, though he often became confused as to which direction to turn.
“Shall we try the dance together?” he asked, extending his left hand toward her.
Her pulse whooshed, and her mouth went dry as bone dust. It was part excitement at touching him and part terror at, well, touching him.
The only way to overcome a fear is to face it.
“Yes,” she breathed.
On a steadying breath, Cecily slid her bare hand into his.
Unlike a ball, neither of them wore gloves.
Matthias’s fingers closed loosely around hers, sending a cascade of gooseflesh up her arm.
He didn’t possess the soft hands of a scholar or a recluse.
His palm had callouses from working with horses, and she could sense the latent strength in his grip.
Gently, he pulled her forward. She hummed the tune, and they began to dance through the movements, hands brushing. Each press of his warm fingers around hers sent a rush of sensation up her arm, but the repeated touches didn’t spike alarm.
It only took a few minutes to realize that Matthias preferred her to treat his stump as if it were a hand.
“It’s too dashed awkward otherwise,” he said.
They started the forms anew, moving back and forth on the library carpet. Matthias generally remembered the movements, only making a few mistakes.
“You are a quick study,” she said as they completed the minuet for the third time.
A faint pink touched his cheeks at the compliment.
“Could we try something more complex, do you suppose?” he asked. “A waltz, perhaps?”
The thought washed her in panic. Yes, she appreciated the feel of his fingers . . . but being caged against his body . . . and one so very large as his . . .
Her courage trembled like a sparrow cupped in rigid palms.
A glance at his expression confirmed that his request was deliberately chosen. She had pushed him to dance, and now he coaxed her.
She swallowed, teeth digging into her lower lip. His gaze dropped to her mouth before immediately returning to her eyes. Her breath came in loud gusts.
“Yes.” She managed a wobbly nod. “A waltz.”
With wooden limbs, she mimed the position and steps, keeping six feet of space between them.
“We join left hands over our heads,” he said, “but my right hand should go around your back. What should I do instead?”
“Perhaps place your stump against my ribcage.” She pressed a hand there but made no move to close the space between them.
“Could we practice the position?” He lifted his arm.
Her stomach pitched and spun atop the stormy sea of her terror. Memories of George lightninged through her mind, flashes of his sneering face, glimmers of a lifted fist.
She gritted her teeth.
Matthias is not George. He means you no harm. He will not hurt you.
Her logical brain knew this, but convincing her body to see reason was something else entirely. Her fingers had turned to ice, and her limbs shook.
How frustrating that this was the thing that terrified her—the simple act of being wrapped in a man’s arms. Once, she had welcomed the intimacy of being pulled close and treasured.
Now, she could tolerate holding Matthias’s hand and touching his stump. She had even managed to loosely embrace him atop Zephyrus.
But a waltz felt different. Deliberate. She was choosing to let him touch her.
On Zephyrus, she had been in command of how much of her body met his.
Now, she would be relinquishing a good measure of that control.
He could drag her tight against him, his strong arm like a vise as he spat epithets into—
No.
She would not tumble into memory.
Lifting her head, she noted Matthias studying her. Concern furrowed his brow, but his gaze held the same steady calm he directed toward his horses. A look that said, whenever you are ready.
He wouldn’t coerce her, she realized. If she told him no, he would back off without a word.
Reclaiming this part of herself would require a fight. She merely needed to raise her proverbial fists.
After several stabilizing breaths, she closed the space between herself and Matthias, eyes fixed on his Adam’s apple. The smell of sandalwood engulfed her.
Expose yourself to the fear, he had said. Well, a man’s chest filling her vision certainly sparked terror.
She lifted her left hand over her head, inviting him to tuck his hand into hers. He did so. Slowly. Gently. No doubt he felt the tremor there.
On another deep breath, she placed her right hand around his waist. The motion brought him even closer, though a respectable foot of space remained between their bodies. He placed the stump of his right arm carefully against her ribcage.
Her heart crashed against her breastbone. Every nerve screamed Run! Flee!
She locked her knees in place and stood still. He matched her stillness. The warmth of his breath touched her forehead.
They needed to move, to dance. She knew this, and yet, her wooden limbs felt cemented in place. This spare half-embrace was all she could manage.
“Would you like to speak of it?” he asked. “Your fear?”
Her gaze flew to his. He was astonishingly close.
“Though horses can’t talk,” he continued, “I believe if they could speak their fears aloud, they would heal themselves more effectively. We humans, however, have no such limitations.”