Daphne did not know quite what to expect from her first real dance lesson, but she had thought it would begin with dancing. She was proven wrong at once.

"You want me to what?" she asked, staring at Anthony in astonishment.

"Walk." He took her arm and ushered her through the doorway to the long corridor outside his childhood room.

"Silly of me," she murmured, "but I thought I was going to learn to dance."

"You will, but first I want to study you as you walk."

That was the last thing Daphne wanted, but when he clasped his hands behind him and started down the long corridor, she fell in step beside him. "To dance well, Miss Wade," he added, "you must walk well. Dancing, especially the sedate steps of a quadrille, is little more than walking to music."

They had barely taken a dozen steps before Anthony came to a stop. Daphne paused beside him. "Why did you stop?" she asked.

Instead of answering, he turned toward her and pressed one palm against her diaphragm and the other against the base of her spine. She sucked in a deep, startled gasp at the contact, but he did not appear to notice, for he pressed his palms into her body with the pragmatic comment, "Remember to keep your back straight. Tonight you are not the antiquarian bending over a table of bronze tools or scanning the ground for pieces of clay pots. You are a young lady of fashion out for a leisurely stroll."

He let his hands fall away, but the warmth of his touch lingered as he continued walking down the corridor, and she felt anything but the proper young lady. She resumed walking as well, but her heart was pounding in her chest as if she had been running.

She was not used to being touched, she told herself. That was all. He had touched her several times now, and the unbelievable pleasure of it always took her by surprise. Just the memory of the odd, melting sensation he could evoke when his fingertips grazed her cheek or he laid his palm against her back set her nerves on edge, for she did not want to feel that way. Not about him.

They strolled up and down the long length of the room countless times, their conversation minimal but for an occasional word of correction from him. Chin up, shoulders back, slow down.

She did not look at him, and in her peripheral vision, he was a blur along the edge of her gla.s.ses, but she could feel him watching her. When it seemed as if they had traveled the length of the corridor a thousand times, he stopped her.

"Excellent, Miss Wade," he said, as they returned to the room where they had begun. "You have a certain natural grace. No doubt you will dance well. But I advise you to wear stays. It will aid you in maintaining perfect posture. Besides, if you do not wear them, I fear you will shock your partner when he puts his hand on your waist for a waltz."

He walked to the fireplace, reached for the musical box on the mantel, and began to wind the key. "Just do not fall into the silly habit some women have of lacing them too tightly, or you will faint on the ballroom floor."

"Is it proper for you to be mentioning my undergarments?" she countered with as much dignity as she could command.

He paused in his task and met her gaze. "I believe I was mentioning your lack of one," he said gravely, but one corner of his mouth lifted in a teasing half smile. She had seen that smile a few times, and she was actually coming to like it. She found herself smiling back.

He set the box back on the mantel, and the music began to play.

"The waltz is a very simple dance," he said as he returned to stand in front of her. He took her right hand in his left, and put his other hand on her waist. Daphne felt herself tensing at once.

"Relax, Miss Wade."

"I am quite relaxed," she lied.

"Are you? Your body tells me something different." He loosened their clasped hands until their fingers were barely laced together, then he rocked their hands in a slow, circular motion. "Do not make yourself uneasy. I am not going to make any further attempts to ravish you. At least," he amended, "not at this moment. Relax."

Daphne wanted to do so, but the idea of being ravished by him now or at any other moment made her feel strange, as if she had taken a second gla.s.s of wine at dinner. She remembered their picnic that afternoon, and how he had almost kissed her. Now, she was acutely aware of his hand against her waist, and she had to fight the impulse to shy away. All of a sudden, the room felt too warm for dancing.

"When you waltz," Anthony went on, not seeming to notice the blush in her cheeks, "the first thing to remember is proper distance. You stand about one foot from your partner, just as we are now. Put your hand on my shoulder."

She did, her hand hesitating an inch away for a moment before coming to rest on the crisp wool of his dark green jacket. Against her palm, she could feel the hard muscles of his shoulder. The sight of him without his shirt flashed across her mind to torture her again. She knew every chiseled contour of his chest, for she had not only drawn each of them in charcoal, but etched them on her mind. Heat pooled in her midsection, and she forced herself to focus on what he was saying.

"The second thing to remember about dancing is that I lead and you follow. Your body goes where mine tells it to go."

"I think I would prefer it the other way round."

"Would you?" he murmured. "An interesting notion, Miss Wade. Perhaps one day, I will let you." He lifted her hand in his, the palm of his other hand warm against her side.

"The waltz is a dance with very simple steps and a cadence of one-two-three. Like this."

He started to move, pulling her with him, but she looked down at their feet, and he brought her to a halt at once. "The third thing to remember is to look at me, Miss Wade, not at the floor."

"But what if I tread on your feet?"

"I am certain I shall survive it. Do not worry about making mistakes. After all, it is only me who is watching, and you do not care what I think." He began moving again, and she moved with him as he counted in time with the pinging melody of the musical box. "One-two-three," he said, leading her in a swirling pattern around the ballroom floor. "One-two-three."

She felt quite clumsy, pulled around the room this way, but even with all the times she stumbled over his feet and brought them to a halt, he did not express a hint of impatience. He simply made her try again. And again.

"You are doing very well, truly," he a.s.sured her as he rewound the musical box for their third waltz. "I knew you would dance well."

"You are a good teacher," she confessed as he returned to where she stood in the center of the room. "I just wish I did not feel so horribly awkward."

"That requires practice." He lifted her hand in his again, and they began to move in the steps of the dance, with Anthony reminding her to look at him every time she began to lower her chin as they danced.

"I keep thinking the only way to prevent myself from treading on your feet is to look down," she confessed. "But despite my efforts, I fear your feet will be black and blue before this evening is over."

"Then you should be very appreciative of the sacrifice I am making on your behalf."

She looked at him with mock sympathy. "Poor man. How you must be suffering. Although it could be worse, I daresay. I could be very stout."

His hand tightened at her waist. "That would be a shame," he murmured, his gaze meeting hers, "but you would still have those incredible eyes."

Her heart slammed against her ribs and she nearly stumbled again. "You dance well yourself," she said, veering the subject away from herself. She did not want him to pay her compliments, for she could not believe they were sincere. "Why do you dislike it?"

"In truth, it is not dancing itself I dislike. It is the consequences of it I abhor, so I have come to dislike it."

"What do you mean? What consequences?"

"The same consequence that impels me to avoid young ladies who swoon. Being a wealthy duke who is also a bachelor makes me the object of intense scrutiny at a ball. Every move I make is observed, dissected, and published in the society papers for all to read. If I engage a lady for a dance, the matrons begin circulating rumors about us all around the ballroom before the dance is over. If I enjoy her company enough to dance with her a second time, I am madly in love, and by the third dance, the wedding is a foregone conclusion."

"That would be maddening."

"It is worse for the poor young lady in question, for the gossip is never favorable toward her. No matter her beauty, sweetness of temper, and suitability, no woman with whom I am linked can compare with the daughter of whichever matron is doing the talking."

She laughed. "I suppose that is inevitable."

"Yes, which is why I rarely dance."

"Well, since no one is here to observe and gossip, you should be able to enjoy yourself tonight."

"I am." He intertwined their fingers more tightly. "I am enjoying myself very much indeed."

Before Daphne could think of a reply, the music began to slow, grinding down until it stopped, and Anthony brought her to a halt as well. His right hand slid away from her waist, but he retained her other hand in his grasp. "Not a single misstep," he pointed out.

"You are right," she said in some surprise. "I forgot to worry about making a mistake."

"Exactly so." He gestured to the side of the room. "After a dance is over, I escort you back to your place." He suited the action to the word, leading her to one side of the room as if they were truly at a ball. He let her go, took a step back from her and bowed. She suspected an answering bow was required of her, and she crossed one ankle behind the other and dipped a short curtsy.

"No, no, Miss Wade," he said, smiling. "You must give a deeper bow than that to me. I am a duke, after all. A knee almost to the floor is expected."

She dropped down again in a deeper curtsy. "You are just loving this, aren't you?"

"Well, yes," he admitted, as she straightened again. He looked at her mouth and his smile vanished. "After all, you did chastise me quite severely today for taking advantage of our friendship, and I must take my revenge where I can."

She had not felt severe at all. Her words that afternoon had been a desperate, last-ditch defense, for she had actually thought he intended to kiss her. Worse, she had hoped he would. "I did no such thing."

"I do not want another quarrel with you, so I will not start one. Although I feel compelled to point out that a young lady should never, ever contradict a duke."

"There are ever so many rules, are there not?" she said, forcing a lightness into her voice. "I have read all your etiquette books, and I still feel quite intimidated. Is there anything else I should know?"

"Yes." He took a step closer to her. "As I told you before, a young lady of fashion would never wear her spectacles to a ball." He reached out, and ignoring her sound of protest, he removed the pair of eyegla.s.ses from her face. "Try to wear these as little as possible. Accustom yourself to going without them if you can."

"I read that a young lady is expected to acknowledge her acquaintances. How am I to do that if I cannot see them?"

She reached for the pair of eyegla.s.ses, but he stretched his arm out and back, keeping them out of her reach. She stood up on the tips of her toes, but even then, it did no good, for he was so much taller than she. Daphne knew she could not risk jumping up to grab the pair, for they might get broken. She lowered her heels back to the floor, put her hands on her hips and frowned at him. "Are we going to have another argument about this?"

"No." Anthony folded the pair of spectacles and put them in the pocket of his jacket. "Because I am not giving them back until our lesson is over. This time, I want you to dance without wearing them."

"But I can't see anything."

He pulled her close. "Can you see me?"

She looked into his eyes, eyes with all the deep, rich colors of English moss-green and brown and gold. "Yes, but-"

"Good, for your partner is the one you should be looking at." He stepped back, once again trying to lead her to the center of the room, but she pulled her hand out of his grasp and did not move.

She hated not having her eyegla.s.ses on. Outside of about a fifteen-foot radius, everything was blurry, and that always left her feeling very vulnerable. She bit her lip and glanced at his pocket, wondering.

Anthony read her intent at once and shook his head. "I advise you not to try."

She did it anyway, reaching for the pocket at his hip, but before she could get her fingers underneath the flap, his hand closed over her wrist. "I warned you," he said as he pushed her hand outward, away from his pocket, "and you ignored my warning. You should never ignore a duke. We hate that."

Daphne's heart began to thud in her chest. He let her go, but he did not move away. She knew she should step back, move away, leave the room. She stayed where she was, almost as if she were under some sort of spell. What would it be like if he kissed her?

It was not until he moved to close the remaining distance between them that she slid one foot backward, then another, then another. He followed, still keeping less than a few scant inches of distance between them. It was not until her back hit the wall behind her and Anthony brought his arms up on either side of her that she came to her senses. With a glance from side to side, she realized that he had very neatly trapped her.

"Go," he said, as if reading her thoughts. He flattened his palms against the wall. "Run, Miss Wade. If you can."

Daphne looked up into his face, and in the hazel depths of his eyes, she saw something relentless and challenging, but though she felt her insides quivering, it was not with fear.

"You could get your spectacles back quite easily if you wanted to, you know."

His voice was deceptively soft, and Daphne knew she should take his advice and run, but the intensity of his gaze was enough to keep her pinned to the wall. "How?"

"Women have so much power," he mused almost as if to himself. "I fail to understand why they so often choose not to wield it."

"What power?"

"A woman can get anything she wants out of a man, if she goes about it the right way. Some women know this instinctively. Most have not the slightest clue. You, Miss Wade, fall into the latter category." He leaned forward, and she could feel the heat of his body even though he was not touching her at all. "If you want that power, I could show you how to use it."

"If there is something for my social instruction that I need to know, tell it to me at once,"

she whispered. "Stop toying with me."

"I am toying with you because this is a game. I will not let you win, but I can teach you how to play."

Something in those words made her shiver with excitement. "I really do not know what you are

talking about."

"The real question is, what do you want? Do you want to be a proper young lady, or do you want to be Cleopatra?"

"Both."

"Ah. That is an interesting answer, and brings with it an even more interesting question. Can a young lady be captivating and alluring, and still be proper, do you think?"

"Why not?"

"Why not, indeed." His lashes lowered until his eyes were half-closed. "If I do give

you back your spectacles, what do I receive in return?"

"The satisfaction of doing the right thing?"

He laughed low in his throat. "Not good enough."

"What, then?" she asked. "What do you want?"