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“Why should I need a dancing master,” Yuri fumed, blind fury trapped in his short strides. “I hardly think it useful at school.”
Viktor Nikiforov smiled behind the boy, following his angry footsteps to the drawing room where the new dancing master awaited them. During the course of his early morning duties, he had seen the stagecoach arrive from the Feltsman library, and it had taken about an hour to coax Yuri, Viscount Plisetsky, into meeting him.
“It is for the annual gala for the Bolshoi this Midsummer’s Eve, my lord. Lady Baranovskaya has insisted on your tutelage. I am sure she has prepared a dance card full of partners for your lordship,” Viktor answered absent-mindedly, noticing some hallway panelling that required fixing before the event. Lord Feltsman would have to be informed. The account books he had audited the night before would have to be revised as well.
Yuri stopped in his tracks, digging his heeled boots into the carpet. Viktor almost winced; the carpet was of Persian-make.
“I do not care about some wretched gala.” The set of Yuri’s shoulders tightened, a crease showing through his white starched shirt. There was something petulant in his voice, newly broken come his fifteenth year. “You promised to teach me, Nikiforov.”
Ah, thought the butler. Did I? Perhaps after one of the downstairs balls that Yuri frequently snuck into as a young boy. The viscount always spent a month of his holidays with the Feltsmans, and the household indulged him like the heir it never had.
It was quite useless to remind Viktor of promises he never meant to fulfill, and as head butler of an establishment as large as the ninth Baron Feltsman’s, he had no time to spare for a little viscount’s hurt feelings.
Pushing forward to the drawing room’s oaken door, Viktor put on his most charming smile. “Ah, but your lordship deserves a gentleman tutor after all,” he said.
He failed to catch Yuri’s disgusted look as he opened the door and announced his lord’s presence.
The room was decorated very tastefully à la mode, with Lady Baranovskaya always at the forefront of fashion. Queen Anne furniture served as the focal point; heavy curtains pulled back to reveal a most magnificent view over the forest, green and yellow this time of year.
On the third window to the left, a figure turned, features at first hidden in shadow. As he stepped into the light, Viktor noted black hair, spectacles and a simple suit, his overcoat probably handed off to one of the footmen in attendance. He looked at Viktor in some surprise, before abruptly fixing his gaze onto his new student, who was once again making noises.
Curious, Viktor thought, after making sure they had enough tea and withdrawing from the room. The new dancing master looked soft, and he blithely wondered how long it would take before Yuri’s temper drove him out of the house. A few hours?
Apparently, sooner than expected, for it took scarce a half hour before the drawing room bell started ringing through Viktor’s room. Having just sat down to adjust the books, accounting for several orders to be made, it was with more than a little irritation that he stood up again. Yuri’s man had been held up in the Count’s manse for a week, and Viktor was suffering through valeting the boy on top of his more important duties.
He met Mr. Popovich, the Baron’s valet, at the stairwell, who informed him of what he already knew, that Yuri wanted him in the drawing room.
Inside, Yuri was glaring at the dancing master, whose face, to his credit, was arranged in such a way as to betray no notion of being cowed. He stole another look at the butler, however, as he entered with a bow. An Italian aria floated from the gramophone by the corner.
“Nikiforov! Mr. Katsuki desires for me to learn the waltz,” Yuri sneered at him unbecomingly, narrowed eyes reminiscent of a cat. He moved to pour himself a cup of tea. “I find it preferable to see it performed. By a pair.”
This brat, Viktor maintained his airy smile as Mr. Katsuki launched into a series of protestations, that it was not needed, that they should not impose on Mr. Nikiforov’s time, that this was highly irregular.
He was right in all things, but one. Viktor Nikiforov thrived on irregularity.
“You will do it, won’t you, Nikiforov?” his lordship was already sitting down on one of the Queen Annes, taking his agreement as fact.
For answer, and with a sigh, Viktor removed his jacket and approached the dancing master, who was squeaking out his last protests.
“Mr. Katsuki will have to be gentle with me,” he said, the smile wide on his face. “I have little experience following.”
Mr. Katsuki turned red at that, stammering out unsightly apologies even as Yuri barked at them to start.
Up close, Mr. Katsuki looked younger than Viktor thought, perhaps even a mere one-and-twenty. Sliding down his nose were blue-rimmed spectacles, which masked the confusion about his dark eyes. Viktor took it upon himself to link hands, lest it take much longer.
“The gentleman offers a hand to the lady, I believe,” Viktor waved their linked hands at Yuri, who stuck a tongue out.
Despite his seemingly permanent red cheeks, Mr. Katsuki rallied enough to take charge of the lesson. “Yes, he would then gently guide her to the center of the room.”
Viktor felt himself guided forward. Oh, he thought. Interesting.
“In waltz, it is important to consider the position. Your lordship should stand exactly opposite your partner.” Viktor arranged himself according to the master’s instruction. He stood a few inches taller than Mr. Katsuki.
“Lightly place your hand at the center of the lady’s waist, and let her hand rest on your shoulder,” Mr. Katsuki continued. “Be careful not to press and fold her sash.”
A firm hand circled around Viktor’s waist as the master spoke, pushing him slightly forward and flush against the master’s chest. His left hand found its place on the master’s right shoulder, while their linked hands extended on the other side.
Mr. Katsuki was sweating, and Viktor wondered if perhaps, the log fire was unnecessary.
“The lady turns her head to her left shoulder, the man to his right for balance. Ah,” Mr. Katsuki stopped, addressing Viktor for the first time, “If I may?”
Viktor nodded, and felt Mr. Katsuki’s fingers brush his neck, move his chin to position. His fingers were hot. Or was it just Viktor who was cold?
“The count is one-two-three,” Mr. Katsuki was addressing the viscount again. “B-but Mr. Nikiforov will surely know--” he added hastily.
Viktor knew, of course. He had danced his fair share, but never the lady’s part. He let the music wash over him, counting steps, until the tenor reached the aria’s chorus, and both of them started to move.
It was easier than expected. Mr. Katsuki, despite his rather shy appearance, proved to be a very able dancer, and an even more exceptional lead. He steered them through two revolutions around the room, and in no time did Viktor feel unsafe in his arms. He seemed to be able to guess just where Viktor’s next steps would land, guiding him away from the various furniture and Yuri’s wandering feet. Viktor was sure he’d never been this considerate of a partner.
Not only that, Mr. Katsuki was expressive. Deep longing filled the tenor’s voice as it crescendoed around them, and Viktor could feel it from his partner as well, in the press of the hand on his back, the grip on his fingers, the look on his eyes. He smiled and it was beguiling, and Viktor’s heart swelled like a young debutante entranced.
Viktor had once loved to dance, but as he rose through the ranks and was appointed head butler of Feltsman Court, this quaint hobby had to be left behind. Dancing with Mr. Katsuki brought back these old, forgotten feelings, of a young boy full of life and love.
The aria ended, but they stayed in each other’s arms - Viktor, for his part, quite unwilling to relinquish those fleeting glimpses of what could have been. Of what could be, as Mr. Katsuki continued gazing at him with parted lips, breathing heavily.
“How long will you two keep staring,” Yuri’s snarl broke the spell, both of them dropping their hands. Viktor was unaware of how heavily he was breathing too.
“Perhaps the young lord would like to try now,” asked Mr. Katsuki, wrenching his eyes from Viktor and turning to his student.
“Fine,” Yuri groaned. “You can leave, Nikiforov.”
Viktor felt the viscount eye him critically, as he smiled his way out the drawing room. How could he concentrate on numbers now, he mused, as he threw on his discarded jacket.
That evening, as the servants downstairs were sitting down for dinner, Yuri appeared in his dinner clothes, disregarding all forms of decorum as was his wont. In the rustle and bustle of servants standing up to attention, he shouted at Viktor across the room.
“He can stay. Make up a room for him,” the young lord repeated, before pouting his way up the stairs.
Viktor had to stifle a smile. To his right, Miss Babicheva suggested the small room in the east wing, as Mr. Popovich wondered if a footman could valet for the time being.
Really, Viktor must speak to the head gardener for some roses for the Lady Baranovskaya. And blue ones for the small room in the east wing.