Chapter 8
Hordes of children were laughing and running in the hallway. Music was filtering in from the adjacent room—no doubt Laertes was working his magic upon the pianoforte—and the scent of gingerbread filled the air.
Oliver was being bombarded by all the things that were supposed to be a joyful Christmas.
It was grating. It was terrible. He wanted to run away, but he did not because she was there.
“Take her, Your Grace, and put her over your shoulder.”
He swung his gaze to the ballet master. “I beg your pardon?”
Monsieur Georges twirled a hand, his ring winking in the light, and said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, tinged by his French accent, “It is time for you to kidnap her.”
“You want me to do what?” he asked again, determined to be clear. He was not in the habit of hoisting young ladies onto his shoulder. It wasn’t that he loathed the idea. It was more that, in general, he used a different sort of seduction with ladies.
Then again, his character was a pirate.
The ballet master tilted his head to the side, eyed him up and down, and said, “Are you not capable of it?”
He ground his teeth together, feeling quite on edge. The sort of movement this pantomime required was far too much like the dancing that he had so adored as a boy that fateful day. “I am indeed capable of it.”
The dancing master clapped his hands and gestured for him to make haste. “Then let us see. I need to see how it’ll look for this particular dance. You must pick her up, carry her, and depart with her. All with ease. After your pas de deux.”
The bloody pas de deux was going to kill him. He hated everything about it. The way he had to use his hands. The way he had to move swiftly, fluidly, and supposedly with passion. Luckily, he was only learning the steps now and enthusiasm was not yet required.
“Surely, it is not necessary to put ballet into a pantomime. Need we dance at all?” he blurted.
“Need?” Monsieur Georges echoed. “Mais no. Need? Does one need flowers? Does one need chocolate? Can man survive on bread and water? Oui. But he will wither and become a tragic little thing in the end. A shriveled toad of a person. And I do not allow people to become shriveled toads.”
It was quite a speech and brooked no argument.
He looked down at Phoebe. “Do you mind if I throw you over my shoulder?”
She bounced on her toes, put her hands behind her back, and grinned at him, which only emphasized her delightful freckles. “Frankly, I can’t wait.”
Those words? They did something to him. They traveled through his frame like liquid fire.
He let out a low growl and said, “Then I must not keep the lady waiting.”
He took her much smaller form in his arms, lifted her easily off the floor, and flung her over his shoulder.
A cheer went up from the other members of the play and Monsieur Georges applauded.
“Bravo, Monsieur le Duc! What a specimen you are!”
Oliver tried to ignore everyone but Phoebe. He rested her carefully so that he didn’t knock the air out of her middle, and she slid her hands behind his back before she wrapped them around his waist to steady herself.
He swallowed. It wasn’t seductive, but somehow being her anchor felt good. Very, very good. And just the feel of her body pressed to his made him feel more vital than he could ever remember.
“Promenade,” Monsieur Georges commanded.
It had become quite clear to him that when Monsieur Georges commanded, Monsieur Georges was obeyed.
Oliver easily balanced her, and he carried her with care about the room. It was quite simple.
“My goodness, you are big,” Phoebe declared. “Your back is taking up my entire view.”
He let a low rumble of a laugh. He rather liked her comment.
“Stop that,” she said. “It tickles.”
“Now, now, children,” the dance master said, “pay attention. None of this silliness. Save the love affair for the play.”
“Love affair?” he growled.
“Did you not read the play last night?” Monsieur Georges arched a brow. “Your Grace, you were supposed to.”
“I did not,” he confessed. He hadn’t been able to read anything.
He had been obsessed, thinking of Phoebe alone in her chamber, trying not to lose his mind.
For he longed to kiss her. His thoughts had waffled between desire for her and horror that he had been pushed into a corner to rehearse a play, which would debut on Christmas Day.
Why he had agreed to this, he did not know. Well, he did. Ajax was right. He wanted her. There was no other explanation for it. And he had promised Laertes he would pretend to enjoy all this.
The loss of that wager was growing ever more severe.
“You may put her now down,” the dancing master instructed. “And I suggest that you go off, and the two of you read the scenes together this afternoon. Meanwhile, I have a great deal of work to do with the other dancers, but first, Your Grace, I must put you through your paces.”
Oliver tensed. “What paces?”
“Now, you repeat after me.”
Monsieur Georges turned and faced forward, and he began to dance slowly, easily, lifting his arms, then gesticulating with his legs.
“I can’t do that,” Oliver said flatly, panic beginning to rush through his abdomen.
Monsieur Georges snorted. “You just hoisted a lady over your shoulder. You can put your leg out and turn it to the side,” the dancing master replied.
“No,” he said tightly.
Phoebe gazed up at him. “Are you quite all right? You seem—”
“Oh. I know what it is,” Laertes called from the doorway. “He doesn’t want to be the center of attention. He’s quite modest, you know.”
Phoebe’s eyes danced. “Modest, a duke?”
Oliver shot Laertes a grateful glance. “Indeed,” he said. “Terribly modest,” he said. Then, much to his shock, several of the Briarwood men, all he already knew through years of navigating the ton, entered.
“Ah, bravo. All the other gentlemen are here,” Monsieur Georges enthused. “They will dance with you so you are not the focal point.”
Nestor, the eldest son of the Duke of Westleigh, his brother Calchas, and their cousins, Octavian and Maximus, were all gentlemen of great martial skill and oratory.
“You will dance?” Oliver exclaimed, stunned. They could all dance in a ballroom? But like this? For a play?
“Of course,” Nestor said. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“But this is not the waltz,” he insisted, struggling to understand how this was possible. “Surely, you don’t—”
“What?” Calchas said with an arched brow.
“Why wouldn’t we?” drawled Maximus.
“It’s my favorite part of the day when Monsieur Georges visits,” said Octavian.
“Don’t you like to dance, old boy?” Nestor queried, slipping off his coat and stretching his shoulders.
He ran his eyes up and down Nestor. “I don’t dance. Not really.”
“How terribly sad for you,” Nestor replied with a touch of extra drama before he smiled and added, “I love to please my wife. She adores the ballet. And so I dance quite often, and our master here is a remarkable teacher. I do suggest that you go ahead and take his lead.”
He felt as if the floor was being slowly jerked out from underneath him. Was this a joke? Were they all about to start laughing?
He swung his gaze down to Lady Phoebe, then to the dancing master, then to the gentlemen around him. “You all take lessons?”
Maximus nodded. “We all have done it. It’s the only way to be truly good at war, you know. A great warrior dances.”
The dancing master gave them all an elaborate bow. “Let us begin. And one and two…”
And suddenly Oliver found himself dancing.
He couldn’t stop. His body was moving. His brain had abandoned him. He was surrounded by other men, doing as he had longed to do as a little boy. Other powerful men. Other titled lords.
He swallowed. He began to shake. Phoebe was dancing beside him. He felt her presence. He felt her smile. He felt her admiration.
But his father’s voice whispered in his ear, and he suddenly felt sick. Suddenly, he paused and then rushed from the room. He couldn’t stop himself. It was too much. Yes, he could still hear his father, the disdain in his voice, and see the look of disappointment on his strong face.
Oliver darted out into the hall and traced his way amongst servants, carrying large swaths of greenery, who were decorating the balustrade of the stairway.
He took one look at it, more evidence of Christmas, pivoted on his foot, made for the foyer, yanked the massive door open, and rushed out into the cold air.
He needed to suck it in deeply.
The chill air hit his lungs, and he savored the crisp sharpness of it.
This was all too painful. He couldn’t bear it. It was…a disaster. He never should have come. He never should have agreed. Damn any lost bet. He should have told Laertes no.
This was unlike anything he had had to endure since he’d been a boy.
“Your Grace,” Phoebe called from the wide stairs leading to the house. He winced.
He did not want her to see him like this. He did not want her to see him as weak. He had spent his entire life trying to be strong. He would have to be strong.
Yes. Of course. He could do this. Couldn’t he? Yes. He had too. He’d make it through this Christmas, this play, no matter how painful. Because his honor was at stake. And he couldn’t bear the idea of disappointing her.