The Mad Lord's Daughter by Jane Goodger

from London, John would take his leave. They wouldn’t need him again until the season started in earnest. Who knew? Perhaps she’d find Charles Norris to her liking. Women were constantly flocking around him, and he’d been the target of more than one marriage-minded mama. He would do.
    For some reason, John’s stomach churned at the thought of them together. Charles was a sophisticated and experienced man who would no doubt have little patience for a girl so completely innocent. And Charles could be a bit of a snob, something that hadn’t bothered John overmuch until now. Still, they might suit.
    He drained the glass and let out a curse, wishing the task was done, that she was married and off his hands. Wishing the thought of her married didn’t bother him so damn much.

Chapter 7
    Miss Stanhope sat, her back straight, posture perfect, as she played the piano and watched John and Miss Atwell go through the intricate steps of the quadrille while obviously trying desperately not to laugh. Melissa, who had spent much of her life performing steps with “ghost” dancers, at first had calmly moved in time to the music in perfect form.
    But poor John was having quite a difficult time of it, and instead of becoming frustrated, was having great fun talking to his imaginary partners. He entertained the two women so thoroughly, they could hardly get through the first figure without being completely overcome by laughter.
    Diane stopped playing when it became quite clear that Miss Atwell knew the dance far better than the young lord did.
    “I think we’ve covered the quadrille quite enough,” she said, making a very poor attempt to be stern. “Perhaps we should focus on the polka or the reel.”
    “Or the waltz,” Melissa said, still grinning. “I’ve never before danced the waltz with a partner. My father never learnt it, you see.”
    John looked delighted. “Before we begin, however, I absolutely insist on a demonstration of how it is possible to dance the waltz without a partner.”
    Melissa lifted her chin with exaggerated dignity. “It’s very simple, considering I don’t have to worry about someone’s blundering about and stepping upon my toes.”
    John gave her a little nod of his head, silently acknowledging her wit, then turned to Diane. “Could you play something by Strauss? I find Brahms depressing.”
    Melissa perked up, feeling ridiculously happy to be dancing with an actual partner. But she would be a good sport first and demonstrate how very easy it was to dance alone. John sat in a nearby chair, lazily draping himself over it, so that he rested his temple against one knuckle, seemingly bored with the entire exhibition.
    Melissa assumed the position driven into her by her dance instructor, her back painfully straight, her chin held erect, her eyes forward, and embraced her imaginary partner as if it weren’t the most ridiculous thing on earth to do. She thought she heard John make a noise that sounded suspiciously like he was trying to stifle a laugh. Ignoring him, and smiling like mad, she began dancing as soon as Diane started the piece, only to break into gales of laughter when she chanced a look at John, who had quite lost his battle to appear bored.
    He stood. “That, my dear, is a tragedy of the first rate,” he pronounced. He turned to Diane. “Please begin again, Miss Stanhope.”
    Melissa felt a familiar rush of trepidation when he walked toward her and extended his hand, but quashed it immediately. Grasping his left hand firmly, just to show she wasn’t afraid, she was slightly more hesitant when she felt his other hand upon her back, warm and solid, just below her shoulder blade. She shook her head slightly, angry with herself, then placed her own left hand upon his shoulder.
    “Courage,” he whispered, bending down near her ear. He nodded to Diane, and then Melissa was swept into a waltz like none she had ever imagined. All those times, dancing by herself as the dance instructor