She dismissed school early rather than herd everyone back to the schoolroom for a mere half hour. She thanked Ursula for playing the pianoforte and went back to the schoolroom to tidy up. Joel followed her there.

"Is this not the final day of your two-week trial?" he asked.

"It is." She half grimaced. "Miss Ford told me during luncheon that if I wish to stay for the next twenty years or so she will put no obstacle in my way. Is it because no one else has applied for the position, do you suppose?"

"What I suppose," he said, "is that it is because you are an excellent teacher and the children love you."

"I cannot imagine why," she said, straightening the books in the bookcase. "I seem to have brought nothing but chaos to the schoolroom. And I have no idea what I am doing."

He grinned at her. "Have you heard of the waltz?" he asked.

"The waltz?" She frowned. "Of course."

"Have you danced it?" he asked.

"Of course."

"It is said to be both risque and hopelessly romantic," he said. "Which is it, in your estimation? Or is it both?"

She had never considered it particularly romantic. But then, she had never found anything romantic. Romance was not for the likes of people like Lady Camille Westcott. She had never found it risque either. If it was danced properly, with the emphasis upon grace and elegance, then it was a perfectly unexceptionable dance. Her partners had always been chosen with great care, of course. She had waltzed a number of times with Viscount Uxbury, and no one was more proper than he-until, that was, he had begun calling her a doxy. Was that what he had called her, she wondered, when Avery and Alexander had chucked him out of the ball in London?

"Or is it neither?" Joel asked when she did not immediately reply.

"I believe," she said, "it could be the most romantic dance ever conceived."

"Could?" he said. "But it never has been in your experience?"

"I did not look for romance on the ballroom floor," she told him.

"Or anywhere else?" He was leaning back against the teacher's desk, his arms crossed. He was almost always relaxed and leaning, arms crossed. Was that part of his appeal-his total lack of formality and studied elegance?

"Or anywhere else," she said severely. "You have never seen the waltz performed?"

"I had never even heard of it until recently," he said. "Teach me."

What?

"Here?" she said. "Now? But there is no music and there are desks everywhere. Besides . . ."

"The desks are easily disposed of," he said, and to Camille's dismay he started to push them aside to create something of a s.p.a.ce in the center of the room. "The music should be easy to provide. You have a voice, do you not?"

"I do," she said. "But no one, having once heard it, has ever pressed me to favor any gathering with a solo."

"A fair warning," he said. "But there is no gathering of people here. You must know a tune that would fit the waltz."

"Must I?" He was not going to let this go, was he?

He strode to her side, took the book she was holding from her hands, replaced it any-old-where on a shelf, and held out a hand for hers. "Madam," he said, "will you do me the great honor of waltzing with me?" And he made her a tolerably elegant leg, scuffed boots and all-boots for waltzing?-and bowed with a flourish.

"You sound like something out of the last century," she told him. "I expect to see lace and frills and a powdered wig and buckled shoes." But she set her hand in his, and with the greatest reluctance allowed herself to be led onto the cleared s.p.a.ce.

"All that remains," he said, flashing his grin at her again, "is for you to teach me how to do it."

"It is relatively easy," she said doubtfully, "but first you have to know how to . . . hold me." She took his right hand and set it against the back of her waist before placing her left hand on his shoulder. She set her other hand within his and raised them to shoulder height. "There must always be s.p.a.ce between us, not too much or we cannot move together with any symmetry, but not so little that we touch anywhere but where we are already touching." She moved half a step closer to him, arching her spine slightly so that she could look up at him.

Good heavens, why had she not simply said a firm no? She suddenly remembered his telling her yesterday afternoon that he would never abandon a woman he had impregnated-or their child. She did not believe she had ever heard that word spoken aloud before-impregnated. She had been shocked right down to her toes, and she was shocked again now. She glared at him as though the words had only just come out of his mouth.

"I like this dance," he said.

She pressed her lips together. This was not going to work. "And then there are the steps," she said severely. And there were all the variations on the steps that made the dance exhilarating and graceful and could, she supposed, make it hopelessly romantic if one were romantically inclined.

"One-two-three, one-two-three," she counted, and they moved off together as though they did not have a single leg between the two of them that was not made of wood.

"This is as exciting as waiting for oil paint to dry," he said.

"One normally dances the steps on one's toes and at a faster pace and with rhythm and grace and elegance," she told him, "and to music. And one does not always take three steps to one side and three back again. One moves about the floor, and sometimes one twirls about as well."

"The secret being, I suppose," he said, "never to get so dizzy that one topples over and never to tread upon one's partners toes, especially if one is the man."

"The man leads," she said, "and the woman follows."

"It all sounds easy enough," he said, spreading his hand more firmly against the back of her waist. "Provide the music, madam, and I shall endeavor to lead you into the grand romance of the waltz."

It was awkward; it was clumsy; it was impossible. Where he led, without any signal to provide her with a clue, she could not always follow. They seemed to possess more than the requisite number of feet, and the extra ones were very large. They danced apart until their arms were almost not long enough. They danced close enough to bang together, chest against bosom, before bouncing hastily apart. Camille la-la-la-ed until she was breathless, protested that he was quickening the pace instead of keeping to the steady beat she had set, and la-la-la-ed again. He laughed.

And then suddenly they got it. They were dancing as a couple. They had the steps and the rhythm. They were waltzing. And smiling into each other's eyes with a certain delighted triumph. But Camille was running out of breath again, and she lost it altogether when he twirled her into a sweeping spin. She shrieked, though they completed the spin successfully, all feet and toes accounted for and unstepped upon and unsquashed. She laughed up at him with sheer exhilaration, and he laughed back.

And then, suddenly, they were not laughing any longer.

She was not singing either.

Nor were they dancing.

Nor was the requisite s.p.a.ce between them.

They were bosom to chest, his hand spread against her back, her hand half on his shoulder, half behind his neck, fingertips touching bare flesh, their other hands clasped against his heart. They were gazing into each other's eyes, mere inches apart, both slightly breathless, both with fast-beating hearts, both . . .

And that was the precise moment at which the schoolroom door opened abruptly to admit Miss Ford, closely followed by Cousin Elizabeth-Lady Overfield, Alexander's sister-and Anastasia, d.u.c.h.ess of Netherby.

Thirteen.

There was a moment when all five persons paused, startled. Then- "I have been teaching Mr. Cunningham the steps of the waltz."

"Miss Westcott has been teaching me to waltz."

They spoke simultaneously before moving hastily apart, and it registered more fully upon Joel's mind who these ladies were-two of them anyway. He had never seen the third before.

"Anna!" he exclaimed, and strode toward her, both hands outstretched. "You are here already." He had received one of her long letters yesterday morning, and in it she informed him that she and Netherby were expecting to be in Bath by the beginning of next week for her grandmother's birthday celebrations. But not today.

"Joel!" She met him halfway, set her hands in his, and squeezed them as tightly as he was squeezing hers. "We could see that my grandparents were suddenly homesick and decided to leave a few days earlier than planned."

Joel's first coherent thought was that marriage agreed with her. She was dressed with simple yet obviously expensive elegance, as the change in her status had made inevitable, but the most noticeable change since she had last stood in this room as a teacher was the glow of health and vitality she seemed to exude. Her face seemed fuller and her slight figure less thin. Yet another change was in himself. He did not feel immediately heartsick and resentful over the fact that another man must be at least partly responsible for the improvement in her looks. It was a bit of a startling realization. Was he getting over her at last, then?

Camille meanwhile was greeting the other lady, who was holding one of her hands in both her own and smiling warmly at her. She was noticeably older than both Camille and Anna, but she was elegant and had an amiable, good-looking face. He could hazard a guess at who she was since Anna had written a great deal about Cousin Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, in the early days.

"We arrived late this morning," Anna was explaining, "after taking my grandparents home to Wensbury. We expected that we would be the first of the family to arrive, but it was not so. After luncheon we all went to call upon Mrs. Kingsley. We left Cousin Althea, Aunt Louise, and Jessica there with her and Abigail while Elizabeth and I came here to see Camille, and Avery and Alexander walked back to the hotel. Do let me make the introductions. Lizzie, this is my dear friend Joel Cunningham, who grew up here with me and teaches art here a couple of afternoons a week. Elizabeth is Lady Overfield, Joel, Alexander's sister-he is the Earl of Riverdale, you may recall."

He had not been mistaken, then. "You are the lady who went to live with Anna in London until she married," he said as he shook hands with her.

"And you, Mr. Cunningham," she said, "are the friend to whom she wrote long, long letters every day. I am delighted to meet you."

"And I you, ma'am," he a.s.sured her.

Miss Ford left the room quietly and closed the door after her while Joel and Lady Overfield exchanged pleasantries and Camille and Anna eyed each other. Part of his attention was on them, these half sisters who had grown up unaware of each other's existence. Anna had been delighted to discover that she had three half siblings and had wanted to love them and share her inherited fortune with them in equal measures. But of course the situation was far less rosy from their point of view, for the discovery of her existence had come simultaneously with the knowledge of their own illegitimacy. It had stripped them of their t.i.tles and their homes and fortunes.

"Camille," Anna said as she turned from him and Lady Overfield. Joel was aware of her hesitation over whether to stretch out her hands, as she had done to him, or to step up closer to Camille and hug her. But she hesitated too long and ended up doing neither. Poor Anna.

"Anastasia." Camille, he was aware, was enacting one of her less appealing roles-stiff, cold, dignified lady-as she clasped her hands at her waist and inclined her head, the language of her body setting a shield about herself that firmly discouraged either a handshake or a hug. Poor Camille.

It surprised Joel that he could see both points of view, whereas until recently he had been able to see only Anna's and had been predisposed to dislike Camille.

"Abigail wrote to Jessica and told her you had come here," Anna said, "first to teach and then to live as well. I have been longing to come and see you here. Just now, Miss Ford has been telling Lizzie and me that she has offered you the job for at least the next twenty years and hopes you do not think she was joking." She smiled brightly, but Joel could see the strain, the wariness she was feeling.

"I believe," Camille said, "that is because no one else has applied for the position."

"I believe rather," Anna told her, still smiling, "it is because you have endeared yourself to the children with innovative and imaginative teaching."

"It is kind of you to say so," Camille said stiffly, and though she did not curtsy, she came dashed close to it, Joel thought. He could have shaken her-and Anna too, for while Anna was trying hard to say something kind and generous to her sister, she was coming very close to sounding condescending. Their relationship was not going to improve if they continued this way.

Lady Overfield must have had the same thought. "It is just like you, Camille," she said, "to take on something so very challenging and to do it well. I applaud you, though you may find the rest of the family more disapproving. You were learning to waltz, Mr. Cunningham?"

"It was one dance Anna had to learn when she went to London," he said. "I had a full account of the lessons in her letters, including your part in them, ma'am. I believe you demonstrated the dance with your brother."

"Oh goodness, yes," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Anna's dancing master was ridiculously pompous. He would still be teaching her how to position herself correctly if Alex and I had not stepped in to demonstrate how it is actually done-with some enjoyment as well as a little bit of grace."

"And if Avery had not arrived to insist I waltz with him instead of with Mr. Robertson, the dancing instructor," Anna said. "I had not even heard of the waltz before I went to London."

"I had never heard of it until you went to London either," Joel said. "But Miss Westcott was teaching the children a country dance this afternoon, and after they had been dismissed I begged her to teach me the waltz. I account both her instruction and my efforts an unqualified success. I did not tread on her toes even once."

They all laughed except Camille, who was impersonating a straight-backed, tight-lipped marble statue. Good G.o.d, if they had not been interrupted, he would have ended up kissing her-and she him if he was not very much mistaken. The air between them and all about them had been fairly crackling. Had it been noticeable? But how could it not have been?

"Avery has reserved a private dining room for the family at the Royal York Hotel," Anna said, addressing Camille. "Grandmama and Aunt Matilda will not be here until next week, but Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas are probably on the way and may even arrive tomorrow. Abigail has agreed to dine with us tomorrow evening. Mrs. Kingsley unfortunately has another engagement. Will you come too, Camille? We would like it above all things."

Camille's demeanor did not change, but she hesitated for only a moment. "Thank you," she said. "I will."

"Oh splendid." Anna looked again as though she might rush forward to take her half sister's hands in her own, but she did not do so. Joel wondered if they would ever be comfortable with each other. Not that Camille was even trying, though she had accepted the invitation. Anna turned toward him. "And will you come too, Joel? Abigail told us that you are to paint her portrait and Camille's and have already been to her grandmother's house several times to make some preliminary sketches. I want to hear all your news. It must be almost two weeks since I last heard from you."

It was to be a family dinner, Joel thought. He would be an outsider. He glanced at Camille, who was looking steadily back at him, her expression giving him no indication of whether she would welcome his presence there or resent it. But did her approval matter?

"Abigail told us something of your methods as a portrait painter, Mr. Cunningham," Lady Overfield said. "They sound very different from the norm. I too would love to hear more. Do please come."

"Very well," Joel said. "Thank you."

"Avery will send the carriage for you, Camille," Anna said. "And there is no point in protesting, as I can see you are about to do. I would agree with you that the distance from here to the Royal York Hotel is not a great one. But he told me to inform you-did he not, Lizzie?-that he would send the carriage, and you know him well enough to understand that he will not take no for an answer. If I were to carry a refusal back to him, he would be sure to say, looking infinitely bored, that you may choose to walk if you wish, but that the carriage will be moving along beside you anyway."

For the first time Camille's lips quirked into what was almost a smile. "Thank you," she said.

"Seven o'clock, then?" Anna said. "Seven o'clock, Joel?"

"I will be there," he promised.

The ladies made their farewells soon after, and Joel strode to the door to hold it open for them.

"It has been a pleasure, Mr. Cunningham," Lady Overfield said, extending her hand to him again as she paused in the doorway. "I shall beg Anna to seat me beside you tomorrow evening."

Anna was at last extending her hands to Camille, who took them awkwardly. "I am so glad you will come," Anna said. "Everyone would have been disappointed if you had not."

Joel closed the door after them.

"Oh, that was uncomfortable," Anna said with a sigh as they set out in the carriage for the Royal York Hotel on George Street. "But what do you think, Lizzie?"

"I think she must have been wearing the plainest, drabbest dress she possesses," Elizabeth said, "that her hair was untidier than I have ever seen it, that her face is thinner than it used to be, and that she was a bit flushed and uncomfortable with our sudden appearance. I also think we interrupted a waltz lesson that was about to culminate in an embrace."

"I was not the only one who thought so, then," Anna said. "But really, Lizzie-Joel and Camille?"

"You think it an odd pairing?" Elizabeth asked.

"Odd does not even begin to describe it," Anna said.

"Could you possibly be a little jealous?" Elizabeth asked. "No, pardon me. Jealous is quite the wrong word, for if anyone has ever been more totally besotted with her husband than you are with Avery, I would be surprised to hear it. Protective, then. That is a better word. Are you a little protective of him, Anna?"

"Oh, perhaps." Anna admitted after thinking a moment. "I long to love Camille, Lizzie, but I find it so difficult to like her. Does that even make sense? Joel surely deserves better. And now I feel disloyal to my sister for saying so. No, it is not jealousy, Lizzie. I never loved Joel in that way. But I did and do love him nevertheless."

"I do not believe anyone really likes Camille," Elizabeth said as the carriage slowed on the uphill climb to the hotel, "except, I would hope, Abigail and probably Harry and their mother. But . . . when Miss Ford was describing her as a teacher, I could scarcely believe she was describing the Camille I know. Dancing with the children? Singing with them? Getting them to knit a purple rope? Becoming emotionally attached to an abandoned baby? Is it possible she is becoming human?"

"I have not known her for long," Anna said unhappily. "Indeed, I have met her only a few times in all. She does not like me, and that is quite understandable. But I admire her immensely for what she is doing. It must be very difficult for her. Yet she is doing it well. Oh, Lizzie, I long to like her as well as love her. Will it ever be possible? But Camille and Joel? I cannot for the life of me see them as a couple."

"He really is rather gorgeous, is he not?" Elizabeth said, smiling sidelong at her companion.