Christmas at Willoughby Close (Return to Willoughby Close Book 3) Read online

  “I do wish to register,” the man answered in a tone stiff with both dignity and affront. “But that is not what you originally asked.”

  “What—”

  “You asked if I was interested in learning to dance, and I am not. I thought I made both points equally clear.”

  “Funnily enough, you didn’t,” Lindy answered and then she started to laugh. She didn’t mean to; she knew already it would offend the man excessively, and yet somehow she couldn’t stop. The giggles escaped her like bubbles, and she knew she was on the verge of losing it completely, and starting in with the kind of breathless, belly-aching laughs that went on for at least five minutes. This was so not good.

  “I fail to see what is so amusing,” the man answered, after several seconds of her helpless laughter. Now he definitely sounded offended.

  “I’m sorry,” Lindy gasped as she tried to stifle the laughter that was now coming out in little hiccups. Tears streamed down her face. “I’m so sorry. But surely you can see how funny this conversation is? I feel like I’m in the middle of a Laurel and Hardy sketch.” Her tone, she hoped, invited him to see the joke, but of course he didn’t see it at all. He most likely never did.

  “I do not know to whom you are referring,” the man replied. He did not sound quite as offended, but he was definitely still annoyed, or perhaps just perplexed. His sense of humour, if he’d ever had one, must have been surgically removed some time ago.

  Lindy’s laughter morphed into a sigh. “Never mind,” she said. “You have said you’re interested in registering, and I am interested in having you register. Why don’t you give me your details, and I’ll put your name down for the class?”

  “Very well,” the man answered. “My name is Roger Wentworth and I will be attending the class with Ellen Wentworth. I trust there is space in the Monday evening class for adult beginners for two individuals?”

  “There is,” Lindy confirmed. Her urge to laugh had, quite suddenly, completely deserted her; she now felt quite flat, although she couldn’t have said why. “The first class is on September seventh,” she added dutifully. “Is that all right?”

  “I have already marked down the dates of all the classes in my calendar,” Roger Wentworth replied with some asperity. “I hardly would have taken the time to ring you and enquire about availability, if I did not believe I could attend the classes as they were scheduled in your promotional material.”

  Of course not, Lindy thought with an inward sigh. Already she could tell he was the sort of man to schedule everything, including his own trips to the toilet, no doubt. Having him in her dancing class was going to be interesting, to say the least. Excruciating was probably more like it.

  “If you come on the first Monday a few minutes early, you can fill out the registration form,” she told him. “The class starts at seven, and we should be finished by nine.” No doubt he knew that already, and was about to tell her so, but fortunately Roger Wentworth seemed to have had enough of verbal nitpicking for he simply said, “Thank you,” and then, quite abruptly, he hung up.

  Lindy was left holding her mobile, shaking her head at the surreal nature of the call, and wondering if Roger Wentworth—as well as Ellen—would actually show up two weeks from Monday. She couldn’t decide if she wanted them to or not.

  Chapter Two

  “Come on, darling, this is going to be so much fun.”

  That, Roger reflected, was an inaccurate statement, if not an actual out-and-out untruth. This was not going to be fun at all. It was going to be humiliating and horrendous, and he was under absolutely no illusion whatsoever that any part of it would amuse him in the least. Quite the opposite.

  Ellen beckoned to him appealingly, one hand held out, a half-smile on her face, as they both stood on the pavement before the ridiculously named Waggy Tails Bakery. The Take a Twirl School of Ballroom Dancing—also a ridiculous name—took place above it, according to the promotional material Roger had in his possession. It seemed to him an unlikely pairing—although dog and bakery was also an unlikely pairing, so perhaps he did not understand what sort of things belonged together.

  “Please, Rog,” Ellen said. “I don’t want to be late. You’re the one who signed us up, after all.”

  And she knew precisely why he’d done that, Roger thought, not that he would ever verbalise it. They spoke about the C-word as little as possible, which suited him fine, even if Ellen insisted upon bringing the subject up on unfortunate occasions, as if she were his therapist rather than his mother.

  Yes, she was his mother. He, a thirty-eight-year-old unmarried man, was actually taking ballroom dancing lessons with his mother. He was either pathetic or strange or even a bit scary, in an unpleasant Norman Bates-like fashion. Whichever it was, and perhaps it was all three, he knew that coming to this class did not put him in a good light. At all.

  The exceedingly awkward telephone conversation he’d had with the school’s proprietor hadn’t, either. Even two weeks later Roger mentally cringed at how ridiculously pompous he’d sounded on the phone, like a complete prat basically, which was always how he sounded when he was out of his comfort zone, which was about ninety-eight per cent of the time, at least in dealing with other people.

  “Rog?” His mother was still waiting for him to enter the building, which he was reluctant to do. Yet the fact that he’d signed up for the classes, given his card details by email, and embarrassed himself in the process, compelled him onwards. He’d got this far. Why not go a little farther, and make his humiliation complete?

  Roger Wentworth was not a dancer. This was a gross understatement. He had not been sporty in school; quite the opposite. Some teachers had called him clumsy. And when he’d thankfully outgrown the clumsy stage—there had been a period of four or five years when he’d been nothing but sharp-angled elbows and knobbly knees—he had still remained stiff and awkward, a man who seemed uncomfortable in his own body, although he wasn’t, not particularly. He just didn’t how to be.

  Unless he had a spreadsheet or a crossword in front of him, Roger did not know how to act. He tried, heaven knew, and often his attempts were at least somewhat successful. He had learned the art of at least appearing to know how to make chitchat, and he managed to get by at work with the usual social niceties, although to say he was friendly with his colleagues would be something of an overstatement, although perhaps not a gross one.

  “Rog.” His mother was starting to look exasperated, and Rog could hardly blame her. He’d been standing on the pavement for at least ten minutes, which was just another sign of his inherent awkwardness. He followed his mother into the bakery, which did not have any of the usual pleasant olfactory associations with the word, but rather smelled like a pet shop or a vet’s, and then up a narrow, rickety set of stairs to the room above. Roger bumped his head on the ceiling. Twice. He was still rubbing it as he emerged into a narrow corridor, the premises of Take a Twirl School of Ballroom Dancing ahead of him.

  As he stepped into the room, a wall of mirrors greeted him and he immediately balked. He did not want to look at himself for the next two hours, but it was difficult not to when there he was, looming up, all gangly six feet four of him. Next to him his mother looked tiny and wizened; the chemo had reduced her body weight by nearly a third.

  “You must be the Wentworths, Ellen and Roger.”

  He turned at the sound of a voice he recognised, husky and rich—the voice of the woman on the phone, the proprietor of the school. She came towards them with a wide smile, and Roger blinked at the sight of her.

  She was at least six feet tall, if not a little more, and nearly his height in the pink platform shoes she was wearing. She’d matched the shoes with an even more outrageous outfit—a poodle skirt in hot pink satin, cinched tight at the waist, with a white silk blouse tucked into it and unbuttoned enough to reveal a generous portion of her even more generous cleavage. Roger, somewhat inexplicably, felt himself blush.

  Her hair tumbled halfway to her waist, a rich go
lden brown, and there was something so impossibly sensual and earthy about her that she seemed to take up all the air in the room. Certainly he seemed to be having trouble remembering how to breathe.

  “Rog?” Ellen asked a bit anxiously. “Are you all right?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m fine,” he said tightly. He nodded at the woman standing in front of him, still taking up too much air.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Belinda Jamison, but everyone calls me Lindy.”

  “I’m Roger Wentworth,” he responded somewhat mechanically. “As you must know, since you just said it.” Her eyes, a bright blue green, seemed to be laughing at him. No doubt she was remembering how idiotic he’d sounded on the phone, blustering on about how he wasn’t interested in learning to dance. Whenever he was nervous, he became pedantic. Even aware of this weakness, he seemed utterly unable to amend it.

  “Well, now that we’re all here, why don’t we get started?” Lindy said as she moved to stand in front of the mirror, her bright skirt swishing about her long, athletic-looking legs. “If you need to fill out any forms, you can do so at the tea break, or at the end of the class. I think it’s important to get moving as soon as we can.”

  Roger glanced around the room, appalled to realise how small the class was. Besides him and his mother, there were just three other people present—a couple who were clearly together, and an old woman who was so hunched over, Roger wondered how she could walk, never mind dance. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the worst one in the class.

  No, he would. No matter what, he would.

  “Right.” Lindy clapped her hands lightly, looking around at her five pupils with a wide, beaming smile. “Now I know you are all coming to this class with different experiences and expectations, and there are some of you who can’t wait to tango—” amazingly, she directed this comment to the hunched-over woman “—and some of you who would prefer to stick to the basic box step.” Her gaze skimmed over Roger, and he felt himself flush. Again. Good heavens, but this was actually going to be hell.

  “But I think it’s always important to start with the basics, to build a good foundation of skills and get your confidence going. So we’re going to start with the waltz, which might seem a bit old-fashioned, but it never steers you wrong. Don’t worry, Maureen,” she said to the older woman, “we’ll be doing the salsa in no time.”

  The salsa? Wasn’t that a food? Judging by the way Lindy waggled her eyebrows, Roger thought it was not a dance he would be interested in learning. The last thing he wanted to do was attempt to shimmy and shake, especially with his mother. This really was going to be torture. Unmitigated, absolute torture.

  *

  If Lindy had had to pick Roger Wentworth out of a line-up, she thought she’d be able to do it easily. He was exactly what she’d expected—stern-looking, buttoned up, and undoubtedly boring. Priggish, too, judging by the scandalised look he’d given when she’d mentioned the salsa. Oh, dear. He wasn’t going to have much fun in her class, not unless she was able to pry open that fussy shell he’d crammed himself into. She was certainly going to try.

  She glanced at him again as she demonstrated the basic box step of the waltz; he was frowning slightly as he watched her, looking as if he was following a complicated chemistry experiment. He was, she acknowledged as her gaze slid away from him, good-looking in an entirely normal sort of way—tall, muscular, brown hair, brown eyes. Forgettable, but still handsome. Sort of. She looked at him again, and his whisky-brown gaze caught hers, and for some reason she felt jolted, like missing the last step in a staircase, and she actually stumbled in her box step, something she never did.

  “Oops, sorry!” She let out a breathless sort of laugh. “But you get the idea. I’ll put some music on, and everyone can have a go. Maureen, shall I partner you? With my height, I’m used to being the man.”

  She went to her phone, which was connected to a speaker, and put on the classic waltz number, Strauss’s ‘The Blue Danube.’ The famous first strains, and then the wonderful swelling of music, caused her a sweet pang of memory of dancing around the kitchen with her dad, standing on his feet while he showed her the steps.

  “All right, everyone, let’s take it slowly. One, two, three, one, two, three!” With a smile for Maureen, who was bent over nearly double and yet still determined to dance, Lindy took the older woman’s claw-like hand in her own, and rested the other on her waist. When Maureen had approached Lindy at the summer gala up at Willoughby Manor and said she’d once been the tango champion of Newcastle, Lindy had been slightly incredulous, but also delightfully charmed.

  “It’s been awhile since I’ve tried to tango,” Maureen declared, “but you should have seen me back in the day. The men couldn’t keep their eyes off me, along with other things.”

  “I’m sure they couldn’t,” Lindy had agreed. “So you’re looking for a…refresher course?”

  “I know I can’t move much, because of this blasted arthritis,” Maureen explained, “but I want to give it a go.”

  Now, Lindy moved her partner around in a careful box step, afraid of dancing too fast and injuring Maureen, who was shuffling more than waltzing.

  “Is this all right?” she asked, and Maureen threw her an irritated look.

  “Don’t mollycoddle me, dearie. I may be twisted up like an old pretzel, but I know how to move.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Lindy answered, and picked up the pace slightly. She glanced at the other two couples—Simon and Olivia, who seemed to have two left feet each and were stumbling around rather adorably, clearly happy simply to be in each other’s arms, and then Roger and Ellen, whom Lindy assumed was his mother or maybe an aunt; she was smiling easily, seemingly impervious to his expression of utter torment. Roger was moving so stiffly around the floor that his posture suggested there was a poker involved, placed in an uncomfortable position.

  He caught her eye—again—and Lindy tried for an encouraging smile. Roger’s expression of torment did not alter in the least. Lindy don’t know whether to laugh or groan. He was clearly going to be hard work, but at least he was here—which begged the question why. Why on earth had he signed up for this class? Was it for Ellen’s sake? Either he was the most dutiful relative ever or something weird was going on, perhaps blackmail.

  The waltz ended, and Lindy extricated herself from Maureen’s rather bony clutches to switch off the music, before turning to everyone with a light, friendly clap. “Wonderful effort, everyone! Now, to mix things up a bit, why don’t we change partners?”

  Dutifully everyone came apart, looking around each other with the sort of shy uncertainty of a twelve-year-old being chosen for a team sport in PE. Lindy decided to take control. “Simon, why don’t you go with Maureen, and Olivia, you can go with…” She was about to say Roger when she saw his utterly stricken look, and decided quickly to change. “Ellen. I’ll take Roger.” She gave him what she hoped was a smiling, encouraging look but his expression of something close to terror had turned to a more predictable scowl. What was with this man? Lindy wondered. He was the proverbial riddle wrapped in an enigma. She couldn’t understand him at all, or why he was here.

  Simon and Olivia, Maureen and Ellen all gamely took their places, and Lindy put another waltz on her phone. As the strains came through the speakers, she turned to her partner.

  “So now I’m the woman, and you’re the man,” she said, and Roger gave her an incredulous look.

  “I did not realise such a thing was in any doubt.”

  Lindy swallowed her instinctive gurgle of laughter. “I only meant, because I was dancing as the man with Maureen.”

  “But you’re not with Maureen,” he pointed out, and Lindy only just kept from rolling her eyes.

  “Right. So, as you’re the man, you’re meant to lead.” She took his hand—warm, dry, strong, she couldn’t help but notice—in hers and placed her other hand on his shoulder. Also warm, dry, strong. And his aftershave, if that’s what it was, was quite a nice smell. Understat
ed and old-fashioned, perhaps bay rum. “You put your hand on my waist,” she reminded him, and with a look on his face that made him seem as if he were reaching into a pit of wriggling snakes with his bare hand, Roger planted his palm on the dip of her waist.

  “Very good,” Lindy encouraged. If she felt a little frisson of something at the feel of his hand on her waist, it had to be merely relief that he was coping okay so far. Everyone else had started shuffling around, but she and Roger still had their feet glued to the floor. At least they were in position.

  “And now you lead,” Lindy continued in a tone similar to one she suspected was used when soothing a wild horse. “Right foot forward, left foot side, right to left, and back—” Somehow, with a bit of stumbling and jerky steps, they got through the basics. “And now again,” Lindy said as once more they went through the box step. “See, this is easy.”

  “I would have to disagree on that point,” Roger replied dryly, so dryly that Lindy thought he was simply making a statement rather than being wry. Or was he? She looked up, scanning his face for clues and finding none.

  Then Roger glanced down at her, his warm, whisky-brown gaze meeting her own for a second that felt weirdly jolting, making Lindy’s hand spasm a little on his shoulder. What was wrong with her?

  She wasn’t sure who looked away first; she had a feeling they’d both jerked their gazes away as fast as they could, the same way you might yank your hand back from an open flame. And in truth it had, very oddly, felt a little bit like that. Lindy could make absolutely no sense of her reaction. It wasn’t as if…no, she couldn’t even think that. It was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

  “You’re doing very well,” she told him and Roger moved his gaze back to hers with obvious reluctance.

  “I am not. Please don’t humour me.”

  “You’re not enjoying yourself?” she dared to tease, and his serious expression did not flicker in the least.

  “I am not.”