Josephine: Bride of Louisiana (American Mail-Order Bride 18) by Cindy Caldwell Page A

told her he looked forward to dancing with her.
    She’d paled, and looked down at her plate. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Pierre,” she’d said, her cheeks crimson.
    “Nonsense,” he’d told her, confident that anyone could dance. It wasn’t that difficult, and he’d enjoyed dancing with his mother--what he could remember of it. He would be pretty rusty himself, so they might make a good pair.
    Now, as he led her into the parlor, he actually wondered if he could remember how, himself. It had been years--except for some very occasional situations he’d been forced into by his father--since he’d danced with a woman with any interest.
    “Bernadette mentioned that your mother loved to dance. And she taught you?” Josephine sat down on the settee.
    He looked up at her, his heart tugging at the memory. They’d spent hours in the parlor, his mother counting--one, two, three, one, two, three--while they’d laughed at his own awkwardness. It had taken many attempts, but he’d never forget her joy the one time they’d been able to dance together at a society ball in town--their first and last.
    “I apologize that we have no music to dance to. I do play the piano,” he said as he motioned to the baby grand piano in the corner, “but I can’t do that and teach you to dance at the same time.”
    Josephine laughed as she stood, setting her fan down on the table next to the settee. “I do believe, kind sir, that I can count for us as you try to keep your feet safe from mine.” She lifted her skirts and walked toward him, her smile bright.
    Before he reached out for her hand, he stopped for a moment. He watched her as she walked toward him, her skirts rustling, the velvet catching the light. Her hair--the most beautiful color he’d ever seen--shone in the glow of the lamps as well.
    His heart pinched and he shrugged the feeling away as he reached out for her hand. He ignored the smell of magnolias, or vanilla, or whatever it was he couldn’t place as he reached out for her, her cheeks crimson as she put her hand in his and her other on his shoulder as he wrapped his around her waist.
    “If you count, I will show you how to waltz. Just follow what I do, except in reverse.”
    He grinned as Josephine looked at both of their feet for the better part of an hour. He couldn’t help but grimace slightly when she stepped on his feet but was careful to smile again by the time she looked up at him, her eyes wide in apology.
    By the second hour, she was doing much better and he enjoyed the feeling of her in his arms as they twirled around the room. She began to look up at him from under her lashes, tearing her eyes from their feet as she gained confidence. Each time she did, he smiled down at her, hoping that she was at least enjoying herself.
    As they took turns counting, laughing as they had to begin again, Josephine started to hum. He stiffened at the sound, something in his memory tugging at him.
    “What is that song?” he asked and she looked up from their feet and smiled.
    “Au Claire de la Lune. It’s a lullaby, actually, but I thought maybe it would be better than one, two, three.”
    As she continued to sing and they swirled around, he was flooded with a sense of recognition and he blinked at the memory. It was so utterly familiar that he closed his eyes and could see his mother--hear her voice as she sang that song.
    He shook his head and focused on the matter at hand. They practiced for hours, and collapsed onto the settee after a bit, both turning toward the open door as Jerome leaned against the doorjamb, clapping his hands slowly. His wry grin sent a quick chill through him. His cousin had been known to mock people when they were boys and, although he hadn’t seen him for several years, he hoped that this would not be a case where he continued his previous behavior.
    “Well, wasn’t that lovely?” Jerome said as he crossed over to the table and poured himself a Grand Marnier. He lifted