A Man Who Can Dance

by Cathy Maxwell

  Graham into the fray.

  She took his hand and started for the line. Betty stepped forward. "I'd

  be happy to dance with Mister McNab while you call the steps, Miss Ambrose."

  /"I'll /dance with him," Sarah asserted. " 'Tis best I lead him through

  the first time."

  Betty's mouth pursed into a pout. For a second, Sarah feared the maid

  would accuse her of wanting to keep Graham to herself?and she would be

  right. Sarah didn't want to share. Not with a woman sporting Betty's

  bosom and easy morals.

  Betty's too-knowing gaze narrowed. Sarah braced herself, but then Graham

  rescued the situation. "Miss Ambrose is my teacher, Betty," he said and

  the maid had no choice but to flounce back to her place opposite Nate.

  Sarah tried to hide a flicker of triumph, without much success. After

  all, Graham had chosen her. "We'll start again. Bailey and Cook first,

  again."

  "Be careful," Cook whispered to her. "You may bounce out of your bodice

  without all that stuffing in there."

  Sarah's lips parted in shock and then, such was her good mood, she

  started laughing. Cook laughed with her. "You are a rum one, Miss

  Ambrose. I had not thought it."

  "And you are a bit of a rogue," Sarah countered. The two of them had

  rarely spoken before. Graham and Bailey questioned what was so funny but

  Cook and Sarah were cohorts now and wouldn't tell.

  The dancing started. Sarah and Graham would be the last ones. She called

  out the steps for Graham as the others took their turns hoping he'd find

  the beat. He couldn't. She'd never seen the like. His eyes were alive

  with his delight in the music. His head nodded to the tempo but the rest

  of him was going in different directions?and then their turn came to

  step to the center.

  Graham grabbed her hands with a bruising grip, lifted his feet, and

  proceeded with the worst approximation of a /chaine anglaise /or even a

  "chase the ladies" she had ever witnessed. He'd shown more grace when

  he'd twirled her in the schoolroom. Now, he bounced and bobbed, his feet

  moving but not in any discernible order and she was hard pressed to

  avoid being trampled.

  They stomped left and stomped right. The other dancers scrambled out of

  Graham's way, and eventually even the fiddler quit playing to gape at

  Graham's dancing feet.

  Worse, Graham was so involved in these steps of his own creation, it

  took him a moment to realize the silence. He came to a standstill.

  "What? Is something the matter? Why aren't you all dancing? Sarah?"

  With a raised hand, Sarah warded off his questions, needing a moment to

  catch her breath. Whatever Graham had been doing, he'd been doing

  vigorously.

  "You were fine," she lied. " 'Tis a good first effort."

  "But??" he prompted.

  Betty snickered and Sarah decided to make a clean break of it. "Pay

  better attention to where you place your feet. All beginners have this

  problem," she added quickly. "We'll resolve it. Bailey, you stand on one

  side of Mister McNab. Nate, you take the other. We'll go over the steps

  slowly. Men only."

  "Should I play, Miss Ambrose?" the fiddler asked.

  "The first time, we'll count the beats. When he has the rhythm, then

  we'll add the music." Sarah was certain Graham's problem could be

  corrected easily.

  She started counting, "Right foot up, and down and one . . . two . . .

  three." They repeated the steps several times and all seemed fine but

  adding the music and tempo was a different story. Graham tromped on

  Bailey's foot.

  The butler doubled over with a groan.

  "I'm sorry." The words burst out of Graham. He backed away and

  accidentally punched his elbow into Nate's stomach. The air left the

  ostler in a whoosh.

  Bailey hobbled over to sit in a chair. " 'Tis all right, Mister McNab. I

  don't think anything is broken."

  "I'm . . . not . . . feeling ... so good," Nate wheezed out.

  "Let me see," Graham said, but Sarah grabbed him in the crook of the arm

  and swung him back around in place.

  "You can examine them both later," she said and, indeed, Nate was

  getting his wind back and Bailey could move his foot. "We don't have

  time to waste. The hour is growing late. Sir Edward could come home at

  any time. Now, let's try it again?"

  "It's already too late," Sir Edward's deep voice said from the doorway.

  "I'm home, Miss Ambrose."

  Chapter Four

  Sarah whirled around to face Sir Edward. Graham came to stand beside her

  . . . but everyone else took a step back. The scullery girl even ran to

  cower behind the chair Bailey sat in.

  Sir Edward walked into the room with slow measured steps. Blair trailed

  behind swinging his walking stick, his hat at a cocky angle. His father

  stopped in front of Sarah and Graham.

  Under Sir Edward's scrutiny, Sarah reminded herself she had no need to

  feel guilty and, yet, she felt like a child caught with her hands in the

  honey pot.

  Graham came forward protectively. "They are teaching me to dance."

  "Ummmhmmmm." Sir Edward's gaze moved past Graham to where Bailey sat and

  then to Cook and the others. He took his time, studying each servant

  carefully and moving on to the next only when he received a proper

  squirm. He saved Sarah for the last.

  She refused to cower. She was a governess, not a menial.

  "Miss Ambrose, do you value being in my employ?"

  "Uncle?" Graham started but Sarah cut him off.

  "Yes, Sir Edward, I do." She clasped her hands so he wouldn't notice

  they were shaking.

  "Then you will cease organizing the servants in such silly endeavors

  like dancing or I shall have a meeting with you in my library."

  Sarah's heart leaped to her throat. The only time Sir Edward ordered an

  employee to the library was to deliver the sack.

  "Uncle, this is my doing," Graham said sternly. "Don't blame Sarah."

  Sir Edward considered his nephew a moment. 'Twas always a war of wills

  and there was no telling who would be the winner. This time, Sir Edward

  deferred first, "Very well," he murmured, "then I will advise /you /to

  stop inciting the servants or I will be forced to ask Miss Ambrose to

  leave my employ."

  The muscle in Graham's jaw hardened. "You can't hold her responsible for

  my actions."

  "I can and will," Sir Edward answered. "You are free to go, Miss Ambrose."

  Graham opened his mouth to protest, but Sarah lightly touched his arm in

  warning. Nothing good would come out of continued confrontation. Head

  dutifully bowed, she slipped by the men and walked toward the door. As

  she passed, Blair leered at her pumped-up bosom. She curled her lip in

  distaste but he didn't notice since he hadn't raised his gaze. Men!

  However, once outside the door in the dark hallway, Sarah rebelled. She

  wouldn't go to her room like a chastened child. Instead, she slipped

  into an alcove and hid in the deep shadows, determined to wait for

  Graham. Then she would rail in private to him about her employer's

  high-handedness.

  In the ballroom, Sir Edward add
ressed his butler. "Bailey, we obviously

  do not give the servants enough responsibilities if they have time to

  dance while in my employ. Or perhaps I should cut back wages, hmmmm?"

  "Uncle," Graham said, a quiet warning.

  His uncle studied him for a moment under hooded eyes. Graham was his

  conscience and always had been. His uncle nodded to the butler. "We'll

  discuss the matter in the morning, Bailey."

  "Yes, sir," Bailey answered, visibly relieved because he knew like the

  others Graham had swayed his uncle to common sense once again.

  His uncle didn't wait but turned and started for the door. "Come along,

  Blair. The hour is late." He didn't wait for his son's response but

  walked out of the room.

  Blair lingered behind.

  He strutted in front of the line of servants, obviously enjoying the

  fact he made them ill at ease. He stopped in front of Graham. His lips

  twisted into a smirk.

  "Nice dancing, coz. I believe my money is safe."

  " 'Tis not the dancing we are wagering over but Miss Whitlow," Graham

  answered. "And there are other suitors," he added pointedly. "I am not

  your only competition."

  "There /were," /Blair corrected. He unsheathed his walking stick to

  reveal the sword inside. Graham smelled the blood before he saw its

  stain upon the blade.

  Blair held the weapon up proudly. "I've been busy this night. The

  merchant riding at her side this afternoon challenged me over something

  I said. 'Tis a shame, no? Now there is one less suitor to contend with."

  Behind Graham, the servants shrank back. Blair enjoyed their reaction.

  "Oh dear," Blair said mockingly. "I forgot to clean the blade." His

  expression hardened. "You don't mind, do you, McNab?" He started to wipe

  the steel on Graham's leg?and something inside Graham snapped.

  He'd learned long ago anytime he provoked his cousin there was hell to

  pay . . . perhaps not for him but for someone close to him. For that

  reason, he usually resisted striking out.

  But the sacrilege of Blair wiping another man's blood on Graham's leg

  without any care or concern to the human cost offended Graham to his

  soul. He caught Blair's arm in an iron grip at the wrist.

  "All of you, leave," Graham ordered the servants, his gaze searing into

  Blair's.

  He didn't have to repeat himself. They dispersed quickly.

  Blair's face reddened. He attempted to edge the blade closer to Graham's

  leg. He was strong, but Graham was stronger. He pushed his cousin away

  with such force, Blair stumbled back. But the shorter man quickly gained

  his balance and raised the sword, ready to gouge Graham in the side.

  Graham refused to flinch. He looked Blair in the eye. "Running an

  unarmed man through is not something you can brag about," he said. "I

  believe it is called murder."

  "Don't tempt me, coz."

  "Then don't anger me," Graham returned evenly. "You are brave with your

  toys in your hands." He nodded to the sword/walking stick. "But I could

  still crush you. I have the skill to save life. Conversely, I also

  understand how to take it. Perhaps you should think on that, /coz." /He

  watched his words sink in.

  His cousin stepped back. "You wouldn't. You don't have that kind of

  courage."

  "You believe it takes courage to kill another?" Graham couldn't conceive

  of the concept. "We are far more different than I had imagined," he said

  sadly.

  "Yes, one of us labors and the other is a gentleman."

  "One of us saves lives, and the other takes them," Graham answered.

  The cocky grin returned to Blair's face. "Then, we are a team," he

  crowed. He swooped up his walking stick and sheathed the sword. "Except

  I can dance," he added as a last jibe. He jigged a step or two as he

  headed toward the door. "Good night, coz. I'm riding with Miss Whitlow

  tomorrow. We'll wave at you as we pass by." His laughter echoed after

  him as disappeared into the hall's darkness.

  Graham stared after him and felt trapped. What devil's bargain had he

  agreed to? At this moment, he could barely recall what Miss Whitlow

  looked like other than she was passing fair and yet he had entered into

  that hell-borne wager with Blair for her hand.

  Sarah had been right to suspect his motive.

  For years, he'd been forced to swallow his pride and watch his cousin

  threaten and intimidate others. He'd been flattered by Miss Whitlow's

  marked attention and he had wanted to best Blair. 'Twas his only excuse

  for accepting such a rash wager.

  He was a fool.

  Crossing to the wall sconce where three candle stubs flickered and

  hissed, he snubbed them out with his fingers. The slight burning sting

  served him right for his own stupidity.

  "I'm going to teach you to dance."

  Sarah's voice startled him.

  He turned to see her standing at the edge of the ring of candlelight

  radiating from the remaining sconces, her face pale, her silver-gray

  eyes so wide they threatened to swallow her face. She came forward. Some

  of the pins had come out of her hair so that it was half up and half

  down. Her ample bosom over her bodice line heaved with righteous

  indignation.

  He smiled. He couldn't help it. Sarah was a true, loyal friend. Here in

  his darkest hour, her staunch support touched his heart.

  "I'm not teasing," she said, misunderstanding his reason for humor. "You

  cannot let a man so"? she paused, searching for the right word?"so /vile

  /as Mister Brock win at anything, including this outlandish wager. I

  understand now why you accepted the challenge. His type of arrogance

  cannot be tolerated."

  "Sarah, don't worry yourself." Graham walked over to another set of

  sconces and blew out the candles. "The chances are good Miss Whitlow

  will not favor either one of us."

  "We can't take such a risk. Your future is at stake."

  He shook his head. "And I can't let you lose your position because of my

  own foolishness. You warned me this afternoon I was being silly."

  A frown line appeared between her eyes. "You're not giving up, are you?"

  He drew a great steadying breath, releasing it before admitting, "You

  saw me this evening. If I attend the ball, I will be the laughingstock

  of Edinburgh."

  Sarah was in front of him in a blink. "No one would ever laugh at you."

  "They should," he admitted bitterly. "I've made a fool's wager and will

  pay a fool's price. Such is the cost of being a dupe."

  "Not if Miss Whitlow accepts your offer of marriage."

  Graham shifted his gaze past her impassioned expression to the

  night-darkened windows. He could see the reflection of the two of them

  standing together.

  "You said she was attracted to you," Sarah prodded. "The servants agree."

  He focused on the determined set of her mouth. "I don't know. She is

  riding with Blair on the morrow."

  He would have moved to put out more candles but Sarah took hold of his

  arm. "Graham, if Miss Whitlow won't marry you because you can't dance,

  then she's a ninny and you will have larger problems than the one of

  working for your un
cle for a few more years."

  He considered her words. She was right.

  "You are going to the ball," she said with conviction. "You will be the

  most handsome in the room?"

  "Most handsome?" he questioned, his teasing an attempt to divert her

  intensity. His situation was hopeless. Could Sarah not see it?

  "Easily," she replied soberly. "You will sweep Miss Whitlow off of her

  feet, pirate her heart, and save her from such an animal as Blair Brock.

  Then, you are going to be the grandest doctor in all of Scotland. You

  will do something worthwhile and powerful with your life and I shall be

  proud I know you."

  A flicker of hope stirred inside him. This afternoon, what with Mr.

  Fiedler's glowing praise over his ability to be a doctor and then the

  meeting with Miss Whitlow, Graham had, for a moment, believed anything

  and everything was possible. Sarah had been right about his motives. She

  saw his heart more clearly than he. How easy it would be to wrap his

  arms around Sarah and leave it all up to her . . .