To Charm a Naughty Countess by Theresa Romain Page B

needed to answer the question. Snuff, wasn’t it? “Ah—no. I never have taken snuff. What is the pleasure in forcing oneself to sneeze?” As if his body didn’t grow agitated enough on its own without prompting from inhaled particles.
    It was growing agitated now. Not from a headache, nor from the tension that often corded his arms. Instead, his fingers tingled, as though wanting again to cast everything away and forget himself.
    “What is the pleasure in anything?” Caroline looked quite serious.
    “What do you mean?”
    Caroline spread her hands. “There’s no pleasure in snuff. There’s no pleasure in talking to the ton and forming everyday connections. You do not play cards or music. I have never known you to dance. In what, then, do you find pleasure?”
    It was not a question he was accustomed to hearing, much less asking himself. Possibly because there were indeed few pleasures in his life. His mother had died in his infancy, and thereafter, his youth had been a bitter war of opposing temperaments until his father abandoned the battle for the grave. Even the satisfaction Michael once got from resurrecting Wyverne had slid away from him as his plans burgeoned, as details and money slipped from him and never came back within his grasp.
    It was already more than he could keep within control, so there was no room for any other kind of pleasure.
    Though he could almost forget that as Caroline watched him, her lips parted. She smelled faintly of jasmine, like spring brought to life in the middle of the City. He could spring to life too, if she would show him how. For what other reason would he be here with her today?
    For Wyverne. Always, only, ever.
    For Wyverne, now, he wrestled with himself until he choked off his want, managing an acceptable reply. “There is pleasure in taking apart the clockwork mechanism of a Carcel lamp.”
    Caroline lifted one eyebrow. “So you say.” But the crimp of her mouth was, Michael thought, evidence of amusement rather than annoyance. “Let us try again, then, and we will seek a kernel of pleasure in the everyday. You have your introduction in a moderate discussion of the weather.”
    Michael sighed. “Yes. And no experiments.”
    “Quite right. What next should we vanquish, to increase your enjoyment of London life?”
    The answer came to mind at once. “Dancing. I know it is an inextricable part of courtship, though it is really nothing but an excuse for touching a lot of attractive strangers.”
    “And unattractive ones too. Sadly.” Caroline dusted biscuit crumbs from her fingertips. “I suspect you’re not the only man in London who has qualms about dancing. It is one of the most complex of our rituals, you know. Every step heavy with meaning, every gesture holding import.”
    “That is not a helpful observation.” Michael’s right leg began to bounce, agitated. “I thought dancing was intended to be diverting, but where is the diversion if every dance holds more significance than the average speech before Parliament?”
    “This.” Before he understood her meaning, she rose from her seat to flatten a palm on his chest. His heart thumped for her notice, but then her head bent close to his, and he felt the warmth of her breath on his ear. “This, Michael.”
    His scalp prickled; he had no idea whether his heart continued to beat. He only felt, wanted, craved as she took his hands, pulled him to his feet, then slid his hands around the curve of her waist.
    His fingers flexed. “The sphere is no longer my favorite shape.”
    Stupid brain.
    “You have a favorite shape?” She paused. “Never mind. Of course you do. Might I hope your favorite number is three? We’re going to waltz.”
    “What? Here?”
    “Here. Now. One, two, three,” she murmured. Then she tugged at his shoulders, humming tunelessly.
    His feet followed as they were bid, at first stumbling until he seized upon the pattern of the steps. Ticking off circle after circle, transporting him ever