Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
“You are holding yourself too stiffly.”
“I am dancing with a man who has criticized my posture six times in ten minutes.”
“Seven,” Nathaniel corrected from the settee.
Benedict did not look at him. Sophia did.
That was the first difficulty. The second was that she was not, in fact, a poor dancer as he had originally thought.
Benedict had suspected as much even before the lesson began, but suspicion became certainty within the first quarter hour.
Sophia knew every step. She moved lightly, kept time without effort, and possessed a natural grace which no instruction of his was likely to improve.
What she lacked, in Benedict’s opinion, was presence.
“You retreat,” he told her.
“I step backward because the figure requires it.”
“You make yourself smaller.”
“I am attempting not to tread upon you.”
Nathaniel leaned toward the twins. “A sensible precaution.”
Marjorie nodded gravely. “He looks very difficult to tread upon.”
“I can hear you,” Benedict told them.
“We know,” Amelia replied.
Sophia’s smile threatened again. Benedict tightened his hand at her waist, correcting her position.
The touch ought to have been no more than practical.
It was practical, entirely proper, visible to three witnesses, and required by the lesson.
It nevertheless made him acutely conscious of the warmth beneath the pale muslin of her gown.
“Your hand should rest more firmly upon my shoulder,” he instructed.
“It is already resting there.”
“It is hovering.”
“I was taught that ladies ought not cling to gentlemen.”
“You are not clinging. You are scarcely touching me.”
Sophia’s eyes lifted to his. “Is that a complaint?”
For one unguarded moment, Benedict forgot the answer. Behind them, Nathaniel coughed into his fist.
Benedict ignored him. “It is an observation.”
“Your observations are remarkably personal for a dancing lesson.”
“Your dancing has made them necessary.”
Her brows rose. Marjorie whispered something to Amelia. Both girls dissolved into quiet laughter.
Benedict drew a slow breath. “Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“You are looking at my cravat.”
“Your cravat is less severe.”
Nathaniel made a strangled sound.
Benedict turned his head. “Do you intend to remain for the entire lesson?”
“More than ever.”
Marjorie sat cross-legged upon the carpet despite repeated reminders that young ladies did not sit cross-legged upon carpets. Amelia occupied the chair beside Nathaniel, with her hands folded primly in her lap, though her eyes shone with amusement.
They had become an audience. Worse, they were an appreciative one.
Benedict returned his attention to Sophia. “Again.”
She sighed. “I know the steps. What I do not understand is why you are turning them into an examination.”
“The steps are not what you lack,” he retorted.
She lifted an angry eyebrow. “What is it I lack, then?”
“The certainty to enter a room as though you have every right to be noticed.”
Sophia regarded him uneasily. “That sounds alarmingly like vanity.”
“It is rank.”
“I had not realized the two were so closely related.”
He took her hand again. “From the beginning.”
Nathaniel laughed aloud.
Sophia looked toward him. “You see what I have to endure.”
“I see it,” Nathaniel replied. “I also intend to enjoy it.”
Benedict began counting. Sophia objected to his pace before they reached four.
“You are rushing.”
“I am keeping time.”
“You are keeping military time.”
“There is no military time in dancing.”
“There is now.”
They began again, then again. The afternoon advanced around them in slow golden stages.
Sunlight moved across the carpet. The fire settled lower in the grate.
Tea arrived and grew cold because no one except Nathaniel remembered to drink it, and Nathaniel was too occupied offering uninvited commentary to finish his cup.
Marjorie attempted to imitate Benedict’s stern expression and nearly injured herself by drawing her brows too tightly together. Amelia declared Sophia’s turns perfectly acceptable. Nathaniel declared Benedict’s teaching methods suitable for cavalry.
Benedict ignored them all… or attempted to. The problem was Sophia. She questioned every instruction.
“Why must I enter first?”
“You will be the Duchess of Rivermere,” he explained, and for a moment, that seemed to be enough.
But then, she had another question. “Why must I hold my hand so?”
“Because elegance requires it.”
“That seems an extraordinary burden for one wrist.”
By the second hour, Benedict began to understand that teaching Sophia was not an educational exercise but a campaign of attrition.
She obeyed nothing without inquiry. She accepted no correction without argument.
And each time her hazel eyes lifted to his with that quiet, stubborn challenge, he felt an entirely improper satisfaction.
“You are turning too soon,” he said.
“You are leading too late.”
“I do not lead late.”
“You did then.”
“I was allowing you to anticipate the movement.”
“That is an elegant way of saying you forgot it.”
Benedict stared at her. Sophia’s mouth twitched.
Nathaniel murmured to the twins. “A bold strategy.”
“What strategy?” Amelia whispered.
“Accusing your uncle of error.”
Marjorie looked delighted. “Is it dangerous?”
“Only if one values peace.”
Benedict resumed the step. His hand remained at Sophia’s waist. Again and again, they crossed the room together.
He felt the shift of her beneath his palm, the light pressure of her fingers in his, the faint brush of her skirt against his boots.
Her floral scent rose each time she turned close to him.
Fortunately, the girls and Nathaniel were present.
Benedict repeated this to himself with growing insistence.
Without them, the room would have been too quiet.
Without them, he might have noticed too plainly how Sophia’s breath caught when he drew her closer to correct a turn, how her hand warmed in his, or how every sharp little argument ended with her looking at him as though she had forgotten the rest of the room.
He was not certain he wished to know what might happen in such silence.
“Do not look down,” he urged.
“I am not looking down.”
“You looked at your feet.”
“I wished to confirm they remained attached after two hours of criticism.”
“They are perfectly safe.”
“That is generous of you.”
Nathaniel set down his cup. “I feel the lesson has reached a philosophical stage.”
“It reached that stage when Uncle Benedict declared doors political,” Marjorie said.
“I did not.”
“You implied it,” Sophia replied.
Benedict looked down at her. “You have a remarkable talent for inventing arguments I have not made.”
“And you possess one for continuing arguments you claim do not exist.”
Nathaniel began to laugh again. Benedict’s patience, which had survived Parliament, estate disputes, negligent stewards, and Marjorie with a slingshot, was strained.
Then Sophia smiled in a small, provoking curve of her lips, telling him she knew exactly what she was doing.
His irritation shifted into something warmer and far less manageable.
“Ten minutes,” Nathaniel announced suddenly.
Benedict glanced toward him. “What?”
“I give you ten minutes before one of you loses patience.”
Sophia drew back. “One of us?”
Nathaniel produced several coins from his pocket and placed them upon the table. “A wager.”
Marjorie scrambled to her feet. “I wager Uncle Benedict.”
“Disloyal,” Benedict said.
“Accurate,” Marjorie replied.
Amelia considered carefully. “I think Miss Norton.”
Sophia looked wounded. “Amelia.”
“You are very patient,” Amelia explained. “But Uncle Benedict is accustomed to being obeyed.”
Nathaniel added another coin. “I choose Benedict. Pride is always vulnerable when contradicted by a pretty woman.”
Silence fell. Sophia’s cheeks colored. Benedict’s hand tightened imperceptibly at her waist.
Nathaniel smiled. “How interesting. Shall we reduce the time?”
“There will be no wager,” Benedict told them.
Marjorie hurried to the table and placed a ribbon beside the coins. “I have no money.”
“That is fortunate, as you are eight.”
“The ribbon is worth something.”
“To whom?”
“To me.”
Amelia removed a small sugared almond from the tea tray and added it solemnly to the collection.
Nathaniel surveyed the stakes. “A coin, a ribbon, and one almond. This has become serious.”
“I wager upon myself,” Sophia announced.
Benedict looked at her. “You believe you will lose your patience first?”
“I believe I shall remain patient longer than you.”
Marjorie clapped her hands. “Miss Norton chooses Uncle Benedict.”
Sophia frowned. “I did not.”
“You said he would lose first.”
“That is choosing him to lose,” Amelia explained.
Nathaniel arranged the stakes into two neat piles. “An excellent distinction. We shall require official rules.”
“We shall require no such thing,” Benedict sighed, raking his fingers through his hair.
No one listened. Nathaniel pointed to the first pile. “For Benedict: Marjorie’s ribbon, my silver coin, and Miss Norton’s pride.”
“My pride is not a wager,” Sophia objected.
“It has been involved since the lesson began.”
“And for Sophia,” Nathaniel continued, “Amelia’s almond and my second coin.”
“Why does she receive less?” Marjorie demanded.
“Because the odds favor her.”
Benedict drew Sophia back into position. “Again.”
She stared at him. “You cannot possibly mean to continue.”
“We have not yet completed the lesson.”
“We have been here for hours.”
“And still you question every instruction.”
“Because every instruction requires questioning.”
Nathaniel lifted one brow. “My wager remains unchanged.”
The twins leaned forward eagerly. Benedict held Sophia’s gaze. She lifted her chin. Neither moved.
“You are supposed to begin,” she said.
“You objected to my pace.”
“I objected to your impatience.”
“I am not impatient.”
“Your jaw suggests otherwise.”
“My jaw does not suggest anything.”
“Now you are arguing with your own face.”
Nathaniel bent forward, laughing helplessly.
Marjorie pointed. “He is nearly losing.”
“I am not losing anything.”
“Except the lesson,” Sophia murmured.
Benedict’s eyes narrowed. Her smile deepened.
He began the count again. “One.”
Her fingers tightened in his.
“Two.”
“You are too fast.”
“Three.”
“You skipped nothing, but somehow it felt insulting.”
Behind them, Nathaniel laughed. The girls began whispering over the wager. Benedict guided Sophia through the turn. She completed it perfectly, of course, and emerged facing him with triumph shining in her eyes.
“There,” she said. “No correction required.”
“You raised your shoulder.”
“I breathed.”
“Excessively.”
Nathaniel struck his knee with one hand. “That may be the finest criticism yet.”
Marjorie dissolved into giggles. Even Amelia covered her mouth. Sophia attempted to remain indignant, but laughter escaped her in a soft, helpless burst. Her body loosened beneath Benedict’s hand, and for one brief moment she leaned closer to him than the dance required.
The sensation traveled through him with alarming force. He looked down at her. Her laughter faded. Something changed in her expression.
The room seemed suddenly quieter, despite Nathaniel’s amusement and the twins’ continued dispute over the rules of the wager. Sophia stood close enough that Benedict could see the dark ring around her hazel irises and the faint color still warming her cheeks.
He became aware that his thumb had moved against the fabric at her waist in a small, unconscious stroke. Benedict stilled his hand immediately.
“Uncle Benedict,” Marjorie called, “you stopped counting.”
He stepped back by half an inch. “So I did.”
“That means you lost,” Sophia said, though her voice had softened.
“It means the lesson was interrupted.”
“By whom?”
Benedict met her gaze. “You.”
Her blush deepened. Nathaniel looked between them with far too much understanding. Benedict resumed the position before his friend could say anything intolerable.
“Again,” he said.
Sophia groaned. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he replied, “you are still here.”
She looked at him for a moment, surprise passing across her face before that provoking smile returned.
“So are you.”
The simple answer settled somewhere deep within him.
Hours had passed. The light had begun to fade beyond the tall windows. The lesson accomplished almost nothing he originally intended. Sophia did not command the ballroom. She had, however, commanded the room.
Nathaniel and the twins watched her with open affection. Laughter seemed to follow every objection she made. Even Benedict, despite the disorder, the argument, and the growing certainty that she would resist every lesson he ever attempted to teach her, discovered he was not losing patience at all.
He was enjoying himself far too much, which meant, he suspected, that Nathaniel’s wager had been poorly conceived.
Neither he nor Sophia was in any danger of ending the lesson, not while each new step provided another reason to remain close.