The introduction to “Bird” filled the room, and Somerset forced himself to relax. Their entrance in this one required a smooth, but tightly choreographed, series of twirls to get them into the ballroom and in position to dance before the judges.
When done right, it was amazingly effective, with him strong and tall and looking as though he was in command—what a laugh—and Isabel small, wispy and dainty, with her ball gown’s skirt billowing out behind her.
Somerset knew for a fact how impressive their entrance was, because Loretta Linden had gone out and bought herself a motion-picture camera, of all things, and two tall electrical lamps like those used by the flicker-makers. She’d been filming almost all of their dance rehearsals, and he’d had to sit and watch the films every night after Isabel got home from dancing at the Fairfield, and listen to her critique his performance. It was never right, of course. She didn’t say it like that, but he knew what she meant.
He didn’t know how she did it, dancing all day and dancing all night, but she was determined to win that dashed contest. That she was liable to kill them both as she went about it didn’t seem to matter to her. If he was about to drop dead from exhaustion—and he was—he didn’t understand how she could keep going.
“You’re still a little stiff,” Isabel said softly. “Relax.”
“How the devil can I relax?” he demanded. “Every time I try to do anything, you tell me I’m too stiff.”
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, Somerset. I don’t mean to carp at you. I’m only concerned about the contest.”
“I am too, dash it.”
Damn. They were arguing, and they weren’t even lovers yet. He knew better than to start a fight with a woman he wanted to marry. After he married her, he could fight with her all he wanted. Not before.
But, dash it, he was tired of being criticized. He said, “I beg your pardon, Isabel.” His voice was as stiff as she claimed his body was.
“Please don’t,” Isabel said. She sounded discouraged. “You’re right. I’m too particular.” She brought them to a stop, went over to the piano, and the music stopped, too.
Somerset took Isabel’s arm and led her to a corner away from the piano. He was beginning to think of the dashed piano as an enemy. “Let’s talk about this, Isabel. Do you really think I’m too stiff? I’m trying very hard not to be, you know. Maybe it’s only that my style is different from Jorge’s.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Somerset. I know it’s difficult to hear someone criticize you over and over again, but . . . well . . .” She took a deep breath. “No, it’s not just a difference in style. It’s a level of relaxation. You know all the steps, and your technical ability is as good as Jorge’s.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know the answer.”
Well, damn. Maybe he just wasn’t cut out to be a damned dancer. He said, “Then I’m afraid I don’t, either. I’m not good at reading minds.” He said it stiffly, and cursed himself as an ass.
After a few moments of silence, during which Somerset took note of Isabel’s furrowed brow and assumed she was thinking of more things that were wrong with his dancing style, her shoulders became slightly less tense, and she said, “I have an idea.”
That’s more than he had. Striving for a congenial tone, he said, “Yes?”
She looked up at him with those huge blue eyes, and Somerset almost lost track of the conversation. “Do you remember when I told you about Eunice’s bad dreams.”
“Yes.” What in God’s name did the kid and her dreams have to do with this?
“Well, she said something that rather alarmed me last night after another nightmare.”
“Oh?”
“She said she was going to look in some psychology books in order to try to make herself wake up or recognize that she was dreaming the next time she had a nightmare.”
Isabel Golightly had a very strange child in Eunice. Somerset only gave her another, “Oh?”
She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know anything about alienists or psychology books.”
Somerset was glad to hear it, since he considered alienists only slightly less ridiculous than astrologers.
Isabel went on, “The only psychology books I could think of were the ones written by Sigmund Freud, and I didn’t want her even touching those.”
Momentarily shocked out of his black mood, Somerset said, “I should hope not!”
With a grin, Isabel said, “I checked into the books in Loretta’s library. She had Dr. Freud’s book, so I took it upstairs and hid it. However, I glanced into it first.”
His gaze narrowed, and his frustration returned in waves. If she was going to start spouting psychology at him, he might just have to throw a fit. “I’m not sure I go along with all the new theories those alienist fellows are cooking up,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, rather than humorless and stodgy.
“No, I’m not, either, but I did find something rather interesting that might help us in this instance.”
Somerset doubted it. He didn’t say so.
“According to Dr. Freud, the more a person consciously tries to do something, the more aware he is when he achieves anything less than perfection. Even though it’s only natural to begin to do something less than perfectly, rather than assuming he’ll conquer whatever it is with more practice, he’ll be discouraged and think of himself as a failure. Therefore, because he thinks of himself—or herself, of course—”
“Of course,” grumbled Somerset, feeling like a schoolboy being lectured by a professor.
“Well, then, I mean, if a person thinks he—or she—is a failure, they’ll believe they’re unable to correct their errors and their conscious minds will live up to their expectations.” She frowned briefly. “At least, that’s what I got out of it. It was more complicated than that, but it made sense. In a way.”
It didn’t make any sense at all to Somerset, and didn’t know what to say. His first impulse was to stamp out of the room and leave Isabel to dance with herself, but he knew that was only his sense of futility climbing. “And is there a point to this?” he said at last, then wished he hadn’t because it sounded rude.
Isabel didn’t seem to notice. She said, “Actually, yes, there is. If I understood the book correctly, what Dr. Freud would suggest in this instance is that you stop even thinking about the steps and the choreography.”
“Stop even—” Somerset shut his mouth, since he’d spoken rather loudly. Striving to remain civil, he went on in a harsh whisper, “What do you mean, stop thinking about them? I’ve done nothing but think about them for the past ten days!”
Taking his arm in both of hers and looking up at him pleadingly, Isabel said, “I didn’t mean it that way. Please don’t be angry.”
Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one being picked on constantly.
“What I mean is that you don’t need to think about the steps and choreography any longer. You know them. They’ve become a part of you.” She searched his face. “Oh, dear, I’m saying this all wrong.”
Somerset couldn’t argue. He feared, in fact, that he’d begun glaring at her.
“What I mean is . . . Well, have you ever seen Vernon and Irene Castle on the screen? They’ve been in a couple of motion pictures.”
“Yes. I’ve seen them.”
“Well, the Castles don’t appear to give a single thought to the rules of the dances. Rather, they look as if they’re only enjoying themselves.” She stopped talking, thought, frowned, and said, “Well, except for the tango, which I think is a deliberately self-conscious dance. You have to think about what you’re doing when you dance the tango. But, except for the tango, maybe you should just think about having fun.”
For approximately five seconds, Somerset feared he was going to explode. Then Isabel’s words slipped past the roadblocks his vexation had erected, and he heard them. He wasn’t sure he believed them. Dubiously, he said, “Having fun?”
With a shrug, Isabel said, “Well . . . yes. Dancing is an art f
orm, true, but it’s really more fun than anything else.”
Not for him, it wasn’t. They stood in the corner of the ballroom, staring at each other, for what seemed like an hour. Finally, after a furious spate of thought, Somerset said, “Hmmm. That actually sounds logical. In a way.” He hated to admit it.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been too picky.”
He shook his head. “You’re depending on this contest. I understand that. And I understand that you want us to be the best we can be.” Making a huge effort, he managed to overstep his resentment and actually smile at her. He held out his hand. “Do you want to give it another try? This time for fun?”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. Somerset almost gave in to the urge to take her in his arms and kiss the daylights out of her.
Making a quick swipe of her wrist to catch the tears, Isabel smiled back. “Yes. Thank you.”
“And, as long as we’re dancing for fun, why don’t you pick out a fun dance.”
Flashing him a glorious smile, Isabel said, “Thank you. I will.” And she tripped back over to the piano to look at the piano rolls as if her own feet didn’t ache as much as his did, although they must.
Shaking his head, Somerset limped over to join her.
She showed him a roll. “How about ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’.”
“Sounds good to me.” So Isabel put the roll into the piano, cranked the handle, set the needle onto the roll, and the first few bars of the ragtime number hit the air.
And then Somerset decided that, if he was supposed to be having fun with this dancing nonsense, he’d dashed well have fun the way he wanted to do it. Therefore, he grabbed Isabel around the waist and twirled her to the middle of the dance floor. Surprised, she laughed, throwing her head back and making Somerset want to continue twirling out the door, up the stairs, and into bed.
Unfortunately, Somerset was a gentleman, even when he didn’t want to be, so he didn’t do that. He also didn’t worry about the steps or the choreography. He just danced. It felt good, and by God, he actually began to relax. For the first time that day, he didn’t think about what Isabel might be finding to criticize in his movements. Her smile was radiant. He smiled back and realized he was enjoying himself.
When the music ended, Somerset stopped, and he and Isabel stood in the middle of the dance floor, staring at each other. All of a sudden, Isabel threw her arms around him, laughing. “That was wonderful!”
His arms closed around her, and for the first time that day he felt as though he was doing something completely right. “Yes,” he said. “It was.”
She heaved a huge sigh and subsided into his arms, as if she was as weary as he and relished this closeness as much as he did. He held his breath, as he held her, and prayed that they could stay wrapped in each other’s arms for a decade or two.
Peering down, Somerset saw her eyes shining with pleasure, and he felt the tension leave her body. She seemed to melt into him. Her eyelids fluttered, closed, and time stopped still.
All at once her eyes flew open again. Her body tensed. Damn.
“Well.” Her laugh sounded strained. “That was much better.” She drew away slightly. “I think we’re going to be fine.”
He let her go with the greatest reluctance.
# # #
Isabel and Somerset danced until dinnertime then Loretta came home and insisted they eat something. So Somerset stayed for dinner, then Isabel dragged him back to the ballroom. Eunice was in bed by that time, and Isabel felt a tiny bit of constraint at first.
She hadn’t meant to hug him earlier. It had certainly felt good, but it was a bold thing to have done. Somerset hadn’t seemed shocked; in fact, he seemed to have enjoyed it, but Isabel didn’t want to appear loose.
Or did she? She supposed that once he knew the truth about her, he wouldn’t want to marry her any longer, but . . .
She told herself to concentrate on dancing and forget everything else. They’d have to use the Victrola this evening, because the piano was too loud, and Isabel didn’t want to disturb Eunice’s sleep.
Because she was a little nervous, she put on her brightest smile and spoke in her heartiest voice. In truth, she was so exhausted, she could have dropped dead on the spot, and her feet hurt so badly, she was sure the bottoms must be bruised. Then there were her arms, which were about to fall from her shoulders in fatigue.
The contest meant too much for her to fail now, though, so she persevered.
“We’re doing ever so much better now.” Although she’d been skeptical that a book written by Sigmund Freud might actually offer some practical advice, she had to admit that he’d been right about trying too hard.
“I’m actually having fun,” Somerset admitted.
“I’m so glad.” Isabel had been worried earlier that day, because he had seemed to be getting stiffer and stiffer the more they practiced. No longer. Now he actually looked as if he was enjoying the dance. Maybe he was simply too tired to be stiff.
“I have to admit that my feet are starting to hurt, however.”
Isabel paused with the cylinder for “In the Good Old Summertime” poised over the Victrola. She’d been driving him very hard. She’d been driving herself hard, too, but she had more at stake in the contest than did Somerset, who was partnering her out of the goodness of his heart. As much as she hated to do it, she supposed she ought to let the poor man rest. And herself. Her poor feet were crying out in agony, and her eyes were so gritty, they felt as if someone had thrown sand into them.
“I’m sorry, Somerset. I guess I’ve become a little obsessed about this.” She offered him a quavery smile. “I wonder what Dr. Freud would say about that.”
He laughed. Isabel loved his laugh. She loved everything about him, actually. “I doubt that you’d want to know what the good doctor has to say.”
She laughed, too, although she didn’t feel much like it. Her nerves were jumping and she was so on edge, she was sure she’d be unable to sleep that night, as she’d been unable to sleep more than an hour or two at a time for days now. She knew she was putting too many of her life’s hopes and dreams on the upcoming contest, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “But he was right, wasn’t he, about not trying so hard?”
“Absolutely.”
He had drawn closer to her. Isabel held her breath, hoping that he would hold her again. She knew she must be a total wanton, but she wanted even more than that from Somerset FitzRoy. She might not be able to marry him, but perhaps, if she was very lucky, she might know his love once or twice. Was that too much to ask of the fates?
“You seem to be rather tense, Isabel.”
Her laugh was genuine, if sardonic, this time. She rolled her shoulders, for the first time realizing how much they hurt. “I am tense. My shoulder muscles are in knots, and I haven’t been sleeping. Too nervous about the contest, I suppose.”
He shook his head. “You should try to relax.” He grinned. “Although I know from experience that relaxing is easier said than done.”
“Yes.” Noticing the Victrola cylinder in her hands, she put it down. “I suppose I’ve driven us both enough for one day.”
“Turn around, Isabel. Let me see if I can get the knots out of your shoulders. I go to a Turkish bath every now and then just to get a massage.”
She turned obediently. As soon as his hands touched her shoulders, shock waves of want careened through her. She wasn’t sure this was the best way to relax, although she could think of something else the two of them could do that would probably work.
Lord, she truly was an abandoned creature. Her only saving grace was that she really didn’t want to be one. She’d love to marry this wonderful man. But in order to do that, she’d have to confess her terrible secret. The only person on this side of the ocean to whom she’d confided was Loretta Linden, the one person on earth she trusted not to cast her off when the truth was known.
“Does that feel good?” Somerset’s voice was soft, and it slid through her like warm honey.<
br />
She allowed her head to fall forward slightly. “It feels perfectly wonderful.” If she were to tell the whole truth, she’d have to confess that his touch made Isabel feel sensations she hadn’t felt in years . . . since long before Eunice’s birth.
They were both silent for a few minutes. Somerset’s hands worked wonders on Isabel’s shoulders, then they slid down her arms. Isabel’s breath caught. This wasn’t massage anymore.
“I wish you’d marry me, Isabel,” Somerset said, his lips brushing the skin at the back of her neck and making shivers rocket through her body.
“I . . . I wish I could,” she whispered.
He turned her around and held her at arms’ distance away from himself, frowning. “Why can’t you?”
“I . . .” Isabel swallowed. A million thoughts and thought fragments raced through her brain, until she willed them away. Then, making a decision she was almost sure to regret, she decided to take a chance. If he hated her after he learned about her background, she’d face that later. In fact, she wouldn’t even tell him until after the contest. She was being sly and cunning, two traits that were opposed to her generally open nature, but she didn’t care at the moment. She wanted Somerset so much, she burned for his touch. At last she blurted out, “I will!”
His eyes widened. He had perfectly gorgeous eyes. “You will? You’ll marry me?”
“Yes.” She flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Somerset, I love you so much!” There. She’s said it. She was pretty sure she’d pay for it later, but again, she didn’t care.
He hugged her hard. “You’ve made me the happiest of men, Isabel.”
And then, as Isabel had hoped he would, he kissed her. Because she didn’t anticipate this heaven to occur more than once or twice, Isabel wasted no time in deepening the kiss. Shamelessly, she pressed against him, feeling his arousal against her stomach and longing for more.
“Be careful,” Somerset said, his voice gravelly. “I’ve been waiting for a long time. I don’t know how well I’ll be able to control myself.”
Perfect Stranger Page 26