Page 16 of Wedded to the Sinful Duke

“You are not much of a conversationalist yourself, Your Grace,” she said boldly, accentuating his title. He had to admit that it titillated him to hear her be so respectful of him. He wondered what else he could make her say in that melodious voice of hers.

“Oh, but I have not revealed all my secrets yet,” he said mischievously. “We have barely spoken.” He threw a cautious glance around then added the second part, “We were busy doing something else.”

The pink blush on her cheeks turned to a fervent red. A strong desire seized him, to gently brush his fingers against them, but he resisted doing so, knowing how risky it would be. Besides, he wanted to convince her to dance with him, not to dissuade her.

“You look even lovelier when you are blushing,” he smiled genuinely that time, offering her his hand. “I promise I am a much better conversationalist than Lord Quentington. Will you dance with me?”

She hesitated for a moment longer then she rested her hand on his. He could not resist the temptation to kiss her hand, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss.

The memory of their unexpected kiss in the garden flooded his mind, igniting a fire within him that he struggled to contain. He had thought of little else since that moment, his thoughts consumed by the image of her, the feel of her lips against his, and the sweetness of her voice.

Without a word, Jonathan guided Ciara toward the dance floor, his hand warm and reassuring in hers. The music enveloped them as they joined the swirling dance of the other couples, their movements synchronized with the graceful rhythm of the waltz.

“What’s the matter, siren?” Jonathan asked. Only then did she realize that she had not spoken a word since they had started dancing. “Has that mesmerizing voice of yours abandoned you?” he asked again, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Ciara’s pulse quickened at his words, a mixture of surprise and attraction fluttering in her chest. She glanced up at him, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of uncertainty. She knew she should maintain her guard, to heed the warnings whispered in the corners of London’s social circles. But Jonathan’s proximity, the warmth of his hand on her waist, and the undeniable chemistry between them blurred her resolve.

“No,” Ciara replied softly, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. “No, it hasn’t.”

Jonathan’s lips curved into a smile, his gaze intense yet tender as he continued to guide her through the dance. “Good,” he murmured, his voice barely audible above the music, “because I find myself quite taken by your voice, Miss Everton.” He paused for a moment, twirling her away from him, letting go of her, and her body mourned the loss of the sensation of his hands on her waist. Then, when she was back in his arms again, the thrill was back, even stronger than before. She was finding it difficult to control herself although she was trying her best.

“And with your name,” he added playfully. “I find it quite beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said politely although she tried not to sound amused or entertained. She didn’t want him to think that she was like the other ladies of the ton, easily charmed into obedience.

“That song you were singing…” he asked. Was that actual interest she heard in his voice? Or was that a practiced skill? She realized that she could not tell the difference with such a man.

“Yes?” she replied, her hand becoming clammy in his. She could not believe that he had such an effect on her, making her body tremble with just one gaze.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Why?” she asked in return, lifting an eyebrow.

He smiled in a way that disarmed her completely. “I liked it. I could not get it out of my mind.”

Once again, she wondered if he was telling the truth or if he only thought that was what she wanted to hear. Men like him knew how to tell ladies exactly what they wanted to hear. Yes, she decided to indulge him, at least for the duration of this one conversation.

“It is an Irish lullaby that my grandmother used to sing to me,” she said softly, wondering if she was doing the right thing by revealing something so intimate, so vulnerable about herself to a man such as him.

“Oh, so it is an Irish name, Ciara?” he inquired as his fingers gently caressed hers during the dance. She wondered if that was an accident.

No. With him, nothing was an accident.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“It is lovely,” he said. “And so is your voice. I would love to hear you sing again.”

She pouted before speaking. “That probably will not happen again, Your Grace.” It helped her to keep repeating his title. It served the purpose of creating distance between them, metaphorical, if not physical.

“Why?” he inquired, sounding genuinely intrigued by her response.

“Because that might lead to a lady being alone with you,” she reminded him.

He chuckled. “Well, what is so wrong with that?”

“No lady should be alone with you, Your Grace,” she told him.

“Ah,” he spoke, pressing his lips together, only to click the tip of his tongue against his upper teeth. “So, I take it you have heard of my reputation.”

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