"In what way?"

She shot him a surprised sideways glance then leaned a bit closer, as if imparting a great secret. "I'm not a boy."

His gaze involuntarily coasted down her luscious form. "Obviously. Why does that make you a trial?"

Her brows shot up. "Because it renders me useless. I cannot inherit the title. Were I not so uncooperative, recalcitrant, and a trial, I would have been born what I was supposed to be: a male. Because I choose to be born a useless girl, Father's younger brother Harold will inherit, a fact that galls my father no end, especially as he detests Harold."

The news that the earl didn't like his younger brother didn't surprise Gideon in the least. In fact, it led him to ask, "Does your father like anyone?"

She pursed her lips and considered. "No, I don't think so. Certainly he doesn't like me. He barely tolerates Mother." She snapped her fingers. "His horse. He's very fond of Zeus."

Even though she sounded very matter-of-fact, he sensed her underlying sadness, and sympathy tugged at him. He knew all too well what it felt like to be a grave disappointment to one's father. Of course, in Gideon's case, the feeling was mutual. And he suddenly realized that that was something he and Julianne had in common, for there was no doubt she was disheartened by her father's attitude. She'd accepted it, just as he had with Jack, but accepting something and being happy about it were two very different things.

"Of course, there were times I was a trial." She shot him a sideways glanced filled with mischief. "Once, when I was ten, I had the audacity to go about in Brighton without my bonnet, resulting in a sunburn. Mother flew into the boughs, declaring my complexion ruined for eternity."

He sent her a look of feigned shock. "You are indeed awful."

"Yes. Although my retribution didn't do me much good."

"What did you do?"

"The next day I went to the beach and, while I kept my bonnet on, I removed my shoes and stockings and purposely allowed my feet to cook in the sun. I thought I was very clever-getting sunburned where Mother wouldn't see it." She chuckled softly. "I was quite done in my by own cunning when my skin ended up so tender I couldn't bear to wear shoes for the next three days." She gave him a rueful smile. "I'm afraid my private rebellion wasn't very successful."

"Have you had others?"

"Other what? Sunburns?"

"Private rebellions."

She shrugged. "A few here and there. Looking back, not as many as I wish I'd had. But over the past few months I've remedied that somewhat."

"Indeed? How?"

After a brief hesitation she said, "I joined a book club with Emily, Sarah, and Carolyn."

"I hate to be the one to inform you, but that doesn't sound very rebellious."

"Perhaps not."

Something in her tone made it clear there was more to know, but before he could question her further, they turned a corner, and she paused before the first door. He stopped behind her. And clenched his teeth. Her ivory nape was so close…if he leaned forward, he could brush his lips over that tantalizing bit of skin that seemed to beckon, Kiss me, kiss me.

He wasn't certain he wouldn't have obeyed the overwhelming urge, but she saved him from doing so by opening the door. Then she looked at him over her shoulder and smiled-a beautiful, shy smile that coaxed the shallow dimples in her cheeks out of hiding. "I hope this meets with your approval."

She entered the room, and he followed. Then halted. And stared.

Flames danced in a huge marble fireplace, casting the room in a soft glow that reflected off the glossy parquet floor. A dozen candelabras, their silver stems glowing with tapers that scented the air with beeswax, dotted the tables in the ballroom, adding to the soft light.

"Are you hosting a ball?" he asked, looking around, noting how the gilt mirrors lining the pale yellow silk-covered walls made the already huge chamber seem enormous.

She stopped in the center of the floor then turned toward him. The soft candle and firelight gilded her as if she'd been touched by an artist's brush. "Indeed I am. Are you ready?"

"For what?"

"Your dance lesson."

He could only stare. "I beg your pardon?"

She laughed. "Your dance lesson. To satisfy my part of our bargain. As I told you in the foyer, I thought it would be more enjoyable than a piano lesson, and, ahem, save everyone's ears."

Ah. So that's what he'd missed while mentally planting her father a facer and consigning her mother to the privet hedges. And what he'd inadvertently agreed to. A refusal rose to his lips; it was ridiculous that he learn to dance. Of what possible use would such knowledge be to a Runner? Besides, he'd most likely tread upon her toes and make a complete fool of himself.

But then an image flashed in his mind… of Julianne dancing with the duke at Daltry's party. He vividly recalled how beautiful she'd looked. And how he'd envied the bastard for holding her in his arms. How badly he'd wished for those few impossible minutes that he was the man whirling her around the dance floor. Holding her hand in his. Touching the small of her back. Looking into those incredible eyes while the room swirled around them. A useless, foolish dream he'd savagely pushed aside. But now… a useless, foolish dream that could become reality.

"What if Winslow tells your parents?"

She shrugged. "I promised to retire early-not immediately. And teaching a dance is really no different than teaching a song or a card game. 'Tis a lesson, nothing more. And the door will remain open so all is proper."

Right. Except in a dance lesson he'd be able to touch her.

As if caught in a trance, he walked slowly toward her, his boots tapping against the polished wood floor. "What about music?" he asked.

"I'll hum and sing." Her lips twitched. "We won't need to call upon your, um, formidable vocal, er, talents."

He stopped when only two feet separated them, a distance that at once felt far too great and much too small.

In order to appear more imposing-and to make certain he didn't give in to the urge to yank her against him-he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "The way you say formidable leads me to believe that you mean something else entirely."

Rather than looking intimidated, amusement gleamed in her eyes. "Perhaps I do. Indescribable might be a more accurate assessment of your abilities."

"You said earlier I can't sing worth a jot. In other words, I possess no musical talent at all."

A dazzling smile lit her face. "Actually no other words are necessary, as those words are perfect."

He narrowed his eyes. "How is it that you issue such insults yet don't look frightened?"

She made a dismissive gesture. "Pshaw. You don't scare me."

He deepened his scowl and leaned forward to loom over her, more amused than he cared to admit. "No?"

"No. Oh, you can be very intimidating, especially with that frown, which is quite fierce, by the way. But underneath that crusty exterior is…" She tapped her finger on her chin and gave him a thorough look-over. "Porridge."

He leaned back and blinked, nonplussed. "Crusty? Porridge?"

"Yes. Indeed, you remind me of a loaf of perfectly baked bread: hard on the outside, soft on the inside."

"I've never heard such rot," he muttered, shaking his head, torn between mirth and masculine indignation. "Loaf of bread. Unbelievable."

She hiked up a brow. "You disagree with my assessment?"

"Heartily."

"Hmmm. You sound… peeved. I assure you I meant it as a compliment."

"To compare me to a loaf of bread?"

"That's not nearly as bad as you comparing me to a drunken porcupine." Before he could say another word, she snapped her fingers. "That's an even better description of you. You're like a porcupine-all sharp quills on the outside."

"Thank you. So much. And on the inside?"

"Oh, still porridge."

"What sort of porcupine has porridge on the inside?"

"The sort I'm comparing you to."

"There is no such thing as a porcupine with porridge on the inside."

She planted her hands on her hips. A tapping noise sounded, and he realized it was her foot rapping against the wood floor. "Fine. On the inside you're porcupine innards-that are the consistency of porridge."

"Oh, thank you," he said in his driest tone. "That's much better."

"You're welcome. Has anyone ever told you that you don't accept compliments very graciously?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "No, Princess, they haven't. I assure you I can accept them just fine-when one is actually given."

A knowing look came over her features. "Ah. Now I understand. You prefer pretty, flowery words."

"Certainly not. Bow Street Runners don't like anything to do with flowery words."

"Then you'll have to make do with either a loaf of bread or a porcupine with porridge for innards."

"I don't see why, as I don't agree with either description."

"Fine. Has anyone ever told you that just because you disagree you don't need to be disagreeable?"

"Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly fickle? A moment ago I was a perfectly baked loaf of bread. Now I'm disagreeable."

A slow smile curved her lips. "Only because you disagreed with me."

His gaze lowered to her full lips, curved in that captivating smile, and he felt as if he were being sucked into a vortex. Bloody hell, she was enchanting. Literally so, as it appeared he'd fallen under some sort of spell. A spell cast by a beautiful princess, but one who kept proving herself so much more than merely beautiful on the outside. This princess was beautiful on the inside as well.

"Are you ready for your lesson?" she asked. "I thought we'd try the waltz-unless you already know it?"

He shook his head-both as an answer and to shake off the stupor he'd fallen into. "No, I don't know it. But I must warn you: your toes stand in grave jeopardy of suffering as much as your ears did this afternoon."

Her eyes went soft, and his insides seemed to turn to-bloody hell-porridge. "I suspect you'll be a marvelous waltzer. And I'm not the least bit worried about my toes."

"Well, you should be. I'll be like an ox stomping about."

"Then we have our work cut out for us and had best begin. After all, I must retire early. Can't have those unsightly dark circles under my eyes, you know." The grin she shot him was downright naughty, and he found himself smiling in return-and biting his tongue to refrain from telling her that she couldn't look unsightly if she tried.

She reached out and clasped his left hand, lifting it to chin height, elbow bent, then settled her other hand on his shoulder. "Set your right hand on my back," she instructed.

Heat sizzled up one arm and down the other, and for several seconds he felt as if he couldn't breathe. Damn. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. He looked into her eyes. She appeared expectant-and quite annoyingly nothing else. Certainly she didn't seem as if she were about to go up in flames as he did. Well, hell. If she could tolerate this, so could he.

He settled his right hand on her back and forced himself not to drag her closer.

"A bit lower," she said. "Right at the base of my spine."

He slowly slid his hand down, his palm brushing over the smooth material of her gown, his mind's eye envisioning the gentle curve of her back.

"Here?" he asked softly, pressing his palm to the small of her back.

Her breath caught slightly, and grim satisfaction filled him. Good. She wasn't as unaffected as she'd like him to think. Why should he be the only one suffering? Of course, she chose just then to moisten her lips, a flick of pink tongue that increased his suffering far more than he would have liked.

"Yes, right there." She cleared her throat then continued, "The waltz is a very simple dance, and done to a three beat. As the man, you are the leader, and as your partner, I shall mirror your steps."

"Which means you'll be treading on my toes as well?"

"You must cease this worrying about my toes. I'm not as delicate as I look. We'll go very slowly. Now, on the first beat, you step gracefully forward with your left foot. At the same time, I'll step back with my right. Ready? Begin."

He stepped forward, but apparently not gracefully, because his boot landed squarely on her foot.