Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

The butler shot a puzzling look at him. “Have you forgotten something, sir?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he replied, and stalked up the stairs to the ballroom, any thoughts of breakfast left behind.

Even as he made his way to the first landing, he could hear someone playing a waltz on the pianoforte. Mrs. Radleigh, most likely, for she was about the only one in the house who had such talent. The passionate and tempting music sent a ripple of anticipation all the way down to his toes.

It made him want to dance. Dance with Amanda.

Ridiculous notion, he thought, gripping the handrail. As ridiculous as the idea that she was dying. With resolute determination to get to the bottom of this nonsense, he finished climbing the stairs.

He entered the room expecting to see Amanda gracefully dancing across the floor, but what met his searching gaze was organized chaos. Footmen scurried about carrying massive arrangements of greenery, roses, and orange blossoms—Jemmy wondered what his father would say about his precious orange trees being raided for their sweetly scented blooms. A maid, her arms laden with linens, dashed around him. It seemed the entire household occupied the ballroom, what with their cleaning and decorating the long unused room. The Holland covers were gone, the long curtains on the windows were flung back. Even the doorways to the balconies were open, and he wondered wryly if, like Amanda’s windows, they’d had to be chiseled open.

As he made his way through the busy throng, he found his mother in the middle of the ballroom directing the mayhem like a field marshal sending her troops into a do-or-die battle.

And there was no sign of Amanda until he heard a despairing cry from the other side of the room.

“Non! Non! Non, mademoiselle!”

The lovely music ended abruptly, Mrs. Radleigh’s fingers hovering over the keys. Jemmy’s head swiveled in that direction, and to his delight, there by the pianoforte stood Amanda.

His breath caught at the sight of her. Her glorious hair was coming down in a shambles of curls, while her cheeks were pink from dancing. There she was, so lovely and vibrant, so very much alive, that he couldn’t believe she had the right of it— she couldn’t be dying.

“I am so sorry, monsieur,” she was saying. She held her skirt up so her slippers peeked out from beneath the hemline. “I fear when I lose sight of my feet, I never know where they may land.”

“My toes, mademoiselle! Your foot landed on my toes,” the fussy little man said. His hands went to his hips as he complained further, “How many times must I say it, my toes are not for dancing upon.”

The flurry of activity in the ballroom paused at this petulant display.

Lady Finch bustled forward. “Bother your toes, Monsieur Suchet. She only needs to dance well enough to leave her chosen groom able to walk down the aisle unassisted.” Then she shot a glance around the room at her eavesdropping staff, and in an instant they were once again in motion, loyal servants hard at work to see their mistress’s demands met.

Amanda hadn’t noticed him as yet, and Jemmy watched her intently. How could she be dying? The flush of pink to her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes belied her doomful prediction.

“I’ve never been very good at dancing,” she said to Lady Finch. “My apologies, monsieur.”

“You must listen to the music,” Monsieur Suchet was saying, tapping his finger to his ear. “Listen, mademoiselle.”

“I do,” Amanda said, “but while my ears hear one song, it always seems that my feet are dancing to another.”

Jemmy wanted to laugh at the incongruity of her logic. He suspected that being contrary was very much a part of her.

“Start the music again, Mrs. Radleigh,” Lady Finch said, waving her handkerchief at the pianoforte.

The lady picked up where she’d left off. The dancing master heaved a loud sigh, then began counting aloud to the beat. After a few false starts, he and Amanda began twirling around the room.

The waltz didn’t last long, for very quickly there was another stumble on the floor. The pair broke up, and the fastidious dancing master erupted into a flurry of angry French.

This time when Amanda glanced up from examining the damage to the dancing master’s boots, her gaze met Jemmy’s. In an instant, the passion from the night before glowed with recognition.

He wanted nothing more than to march across the room and kiss her until the fires he’d ignited last night rekindled… convinced him that he’d misheard her.

That she couldn’t be dying.

“One last time, mademoiselle,” the dancing master said between clenched teeth.

“Yes, I would love to,” she said, but her words were for Jemmy and for him alone.

Mrs. Ra

dleigh began to play, and the dancing master took Amanda in his arms. Slowly, he moved her through the steps of a waltz.