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Good Lord above.

Now she understood far-sighted Pomposa Wetherwax’s befuddlement and her big-as-a-dinner-plate eyes behind her thick spectacles.

Smiles that scattered one’s wits, flopped one’s tummy over itself, and unhinged one’s knees ought to be against the law. A scripture about resisting temptation fluttered around the edges of Chasity’s conscience but faded away before she could seize upon it like a drowning kitten.

Regaining her composure, she folded her hands before her. She must model how she expected the students to behave. From beneath her eyelashes, she observed Stella Ramsbottom fervently whispering into Geraldine Belcher’s ear.

Practically—no, actually—ogling Mr. Terramier, Geraldine nodded vigorously.

They, too, ought to be modeling decorum instead of acting like calf-eyed ninnies in front of the students.

“Shall we begin?” Chasity angled her chin toward the students. “Girls, form your lines, please. Quickly and quietly.”

They complied at once, every moon-eyed student’s attention fixated on Mr. Terramier.

Oh, this really was too much.

Chasity fought the urge to grind her teeth into powder or melodramatically roll her eyes. Really, hadn’t any of them a smidge of restraint or a modicum of pride? They all looked like love-sick dolts.

Mrs. Wetherwax ran her thick fingers over the keys, practicing the first few stanzas of the waltz. Chasity wasn’t familiar with the melody, but it possessed a lilting quality that made her want to tap her toes.

“I had intended to ask Mrs. Crenshaw to help me demonstrate the dance movements today,” Mr. Terramier said in his melodic baritone.

Mrs. Crenshaw would be terribly disappointed.

“As she’s not available, you’ll have to select one of the instructors in her stead,” Chasity said, indicating with an angled shoulder the cluster of enthusiastic teachers.

Each wore a pathetic expression of eager anticipation. Once a wallflower, always a wallflower, it would seem.

“Ah, yes. Although…” Mr. Terramier mused with mock thoughtfulness, the rich timbre of his voice reverberating in his chest as he held a forefinger to his strong chin.

Did the man sing too?

Where had that ridiculous thought come from?

Before Chasity could wrestle her equanimity into submission, he flashed another dashing grin. His thickly lashed, rich brown eyes fairly smoldered with amusement.

Why. Why, the bounder was laughing at Chasity!

He knew exactly how he affected her, the insolent cur. Well, she was not one to be trifled with by the likes of him. She was made of sterner stuff, and no handsome buck would turn her head.

“Mr. Terramier. We await your selection,” she prompted with remarkable civility, quite proud she could affect an unflustered demeanor. Never mind the rabbits hopping about in her stomach.

“Oh, but I cannot possibly pick one of them without hurting the others’ feelings,” Mr. Terramier murmured near her ear as he took her elbow. His voice practically a purr, he said, “Much wiser to select you as a partner, Miss Noble, I think.”

What? What?

Had he mistaken her meaning, or was he being deliberately obtuse?

Chasity shrewdly eyed him.

He grinned. Unrepentant and unabashed.

The latter. Most definitely the latter, the rotter.

He guided her forward.

“Wh…what are you d…doing?” she asked, cursing inwardly at her tongue-tied stutter.