"Do you remember, Christine," he asked, absently lifting the death's-head mask, "when we danced the masquerade?" A long pause in speech was neatly filled with a quiet note of laughter, to veil the sudden awkwardness that had overtaken him. "No, no, of course you do not--it never happened..." That angelic voice lost its pseudo-humor, and became grave. "I dreamed of it, though--yearned for it, imagined it, until I had almost convinced myself that we did, indeed, dance together..." The mask was set aside, and he drifted away from it, around the library, fingers lingering absently on various knick-knacks. After much idle exploration, they paused upon an elephant figurine from Persia.
"You know," he said, looking at her, "they do not dance in Persia the way they dance here." He moved away from the figurine, coming up slowly behind her. "Their dance is not strict; no stiff postures and specific steps are rigidly adhered to." His hands fell to rest upon her hips, pressing lightly and tucking her waist against his. "The women dance with such grace, such sensuality, that the finest ballet dancer of Paris would wither with jealousy."
Slowly, his hands began alternating pressure, gently guiding her hips into a swaying motion. "It begins with that simple, quiet sway..." His own hips followed the motion of hers; when he felt she had captured his set rhythm, is hands swept up her ribs to her arms. "And then," he purred into her ear, "they raise their arms..." As he spoke, his hands ran down her arms, and guided them into the air, keeping them moving at a slow pace, keeping them in that steady undulating motion he had so often studied in Persia. Quietly, he sang a few lines from one of the more heart-felt tunes of the land; a slow, wailing tune, when sung correctly, though in his gentle man's voice it came out more as peaceful mourning. As his left hand steered her arm farther out to the side, his right brought hers up above her head. "There are many ugly things in Persia," he whispered against her neck, "but their dancers...
"And in Spain!" he cried. Abruptly, he spun her around, left hand capturing her right, right hand pressing into her lower back and holding her against him. "In Spain, the dances are fast, passionate!" They spun, he guided her in a flurry of steps across the room, and then gently and gracefully dipped her. As she was drawn back into place by his left hand (now resting upon her upper back), his right hand pulled her left leg up, to curl around his waist.
He held her there for a long moment, breathing quickly, eyes aflame with passionate desire. The heat of her body infected his own skin, coaxing it into semi-life, convincing it to warm somewhat beneath the contact. Their breath mingled, and as he locked gazes with her, he allowed himself to, for just a moment, imagine all that could happen between them.
And then, realizing that he had long ago crossed the line of propriety, he quickly released her and retreated to his cluttered shelves. Keeping his back to her--refusing to even look her way--he began fiddling with his many knick-knacks again. "But of course," he concluded conversationally, attempting desperately to keep the tremble of longing out of his voice, "most prefer the more stately dances of France and England, I suppose..."