“I believe the next set is to be a waltz,” Joel said, addressing her after nodding a greeting to the other occupants of the table. “Will you dance it with me, Camille?”
“Yes.” She got to her feet and set her napkin down on the table. “Thank you.”
“Or perhaps,” he said as they walked in the direction of the ballroom, “you would feel safer if we merely promenaded about the perimeter of the room. I notice that is a favorite activity of a number of people.”
“Have you turned craven, Mr. Cunningham?” she asked, unfurling her fan and wafting it before her face.
“Not at all, Miss Westcott,” he said. “I have turned chivalrous. I do not want to make a spectacle of you on the dance floor. Not to mention endangering your toes.”
“Are you saying, by any chance,” she asked him, “that you do not trust my teaching skills, Mr. Cunningham?”
“I believe it is more my learning skills I doubt,” he said. “But I am willing to give it a go if you are.”
“Give it a go?” She frowned at him. “What sort of language is that, Mr. Cunningham?”
“The gutter?” he suggested.
And they dissolved into laughter, which was not at all a genteel thing to do, and Camille slid an arm through his.
“As Lady Overfield remarked earlier,” he said, “the floor will doubtless be so crowded that no one will even notice us or any imperfections in our dancing prowess.”
That proved less true than either of them could have wished. The waltz, it seemed, was not yet as fashionable in Bath as it was in London, and most of the guests preferred to watch or else remain in the tearoom. A number of couples took to the floor, but there was plenty of room for them all to dance freely without fear of collisions—and plenty of room for them all to be observed.
“This,” Joel said as the music began, “was not the most brilliant idea I have ever had.”
“Yes,” she said, looking very directly into his face, “it was.”
His hand was warm against the back of her waist, his shoulder firm beneath her own hand. His other hand, clasping her own, felt large and reassuring, and he smelled good of something indefinable—shaving soap, perhaps, new linen and coat fabric, perhaps. And of Joel. She was sure she could have been led here blindfolded and known exactly who held her in waltz position. His body heat enveloped her and she remembered last Sunday with an ache of longing. She so loved his lovemaking.
His gaze was intense, and she wondered if he was having similar thoughts. Oh, Joel, she asked him silently, what did you mean yesterday?
They waltzed with wooden legs again when the music began—one two three, one two three, three to one side, three back again—and Camille watched a flush begin to creep up his neck from beneath his cravat and something like panic gather in his eyes. She smiled at him and laughed softly.
And suddenly they were waltzing again as they had begun to do in the schoolroom, but without the inhibitions of space and the limits of her breath as she both sang and danced. This time a full orchestra and the ballroom at the Upper Rooms swept them onward, and they danced and twirled in a world that was theirs and theirs alone, their eyes on each other, smiles on their lips.
It was strange being both aware of one’s surroundings and all alone within them at the same time. She knew that Anna was dancing with Avery, Alexander and Elizabeth and Abby and Jessica with unknown partners—even though Abby and Jessica had not even made their official come-outs yet and would not be allowed even then to waltz in London until they had been given the nod of approval by one of the hostesses of Almack’s Club. She was aware of other dancers and the swirl of color from gowns and the flash of jewels in the candlelight. She was aware of the older members of her family and other people standing about watching. She was aware of the smell of candles and perfumes, of the sounds of dancing feet and swishing silks and satins beneath the beat of the music. She was even aware that she and Joel were attracting more than their fair share of attention, perhaps because of who she was, more probably because of whom Joel had just become. And yet all of these impressions merely formed a distant background to the world of music and movement and, yes, of romance, in which they danced.
The most wonderful, wonderful feeling in the world, she thought without trying to analyze the thought or distrust it or be made fearful by it—the most wonderful feeling in the world was being in love.
When the music ended, the two worlds came together, and Camille removed her hand from Joel’s shoulder, slipped her other hand free of his, and smiled regretfully at him.
“I believe, Mr. Cunningham,” she said, “I must be the world’s best teacher.”
“Only, Miss Westcott,” he said, “because you have the world’s best pupil.”
They grinned inelegantly at each other.
“There is nowhere here to be even remotely private, is there?” he said. “Come for a stroll outside with me, Camille?”
In the late evening, when it was dark out there? Without a chaperon? Without—
“I’ll fetch my shawl,” she said.
* * *
The sounds of music and voices and laughter dimmed as soon as they stepped outdoors. There was the mere sliver of a new moon overhead. But the sky was cloudless and there was more than enough starlight to see by. The air had lost the heat of the day but was on the warm side of cool. There was no discernible wind.
“It is lovely out here,” she said, lifting her face to the sky.