Page 18 of A Bride for the Rakish Duke

She gulped again. “You ought to be worried about what might happen to your toes. I nearly broke a man’s foot in a quadrille, the year of my debut.”

“Then you have been dancing with weak men.” He slid his fingers through hers, pulling her against him as close as he dared without making anyone else faint or call it obscenity. “You will never dance with a weak man again.”

The orchestra took that moment to strike up a scintillating melody, perfect for the sort of waltz he had in mind. And before Lydia could catch her breath, he stepped forward, pushing his thigh against hers to nudge it back. Her leg half-buckled at the intimate touch, but his arm around her waist held her upright.

With a smile, he brought his other foot forward and gave her a second to understand the step before he swept his foot between hers and grazed her ankle, letting her know to step sideways. She did so with a shaky hesitation, her eyes wide and gleaming, her mouth parted as if she did not know whether to yell at him or kiss him. At least, that was what he chose to believe.

“And backward,” he whispered, leading her.

She practically fell into him in her attempt to do so, body to body, only fabric between them as he gripped her tight. Her hand slipped down from his shoulder to his chest, curling a handful of his lapel into her fist, clinging to him.

“I have you, kitten,” he murmured. “You will not fall.”

“You are doing this to embarrass me more,” she panted, her skin glistening with the effort of those first steps.

He shook his head. “Can you not feel it?”

“What? Perspiration? Humiliation? Utter contempt?” she muttered.

“Jealousy. Fascination. All aimed at you, kitten.” He held her more tightly and lifted her off her feet, turning her in a slow circle. “Tonight, every lady in this room will wish they were you.We are such stuff as dreams are made on.”

Her eyes widened. “You knowThe Tempest?”

“I would not be much of a duke if I did not know my Shakespeare,” he replied, raising her higher this time as they whirled in a faster circle, again and again.

When he set her down once more, he whispered the steps before he made them. To his surprise, she was a quick study, soon moving with a grace and fluidity that belonged in a much grander ballroom than his.

Her gaze did not leave his, that sheen of perspiration transforming into a glow of vitality as she settled into the rhythm. Her hand relaxed on his lapel until her palm waspressed to his chest and her other hand gripped his with a confidence and an enthusiasm that he had not anticipated.

“Spin out, and spin back into me,” he told her.

She nodded, and with their hands raised up, she did just that, whirling in an elegant spin. Her skirts twirled with her, a few locks of hair flying loose, a smile breaking across her pretty face like dawn rising over an endless night, making her shine in that rare way that no one could look away from.

He caught her as she spun back into his embrace, and for a fleeting half-second, they were gazing at one another, pressed close, their lips barely a breath away from one another’s. His hand slid further down her back than it was supposed to, his fingertips touching the curve of her waist while his other hand gave hers a subtle squeeze.

Snapping out of it with a jolt, he put his hand into a more proper position, turned sideways against the middle of her back, and immediately moved into the next steps.

This is why I did not ask her to dance.

For too many years, he had indulged in his rakish ways—he had forgotten that this was not one of those situations. Back then, his dances with carefully chosen ladies were merely a prelude to what came after, but as he had told Lydia himself,what came afterwas not his priority, at present. Mending his estate and reputation was.

But she was enjoying herself, and she was enjoying the dance, and with that came certain sensations that pulsed through his veins. Indeed, there was nothing so titillating as seeing a woman enjoy herself. And seeing her flushed and glowing and breathing hard, it was difficult not to imagine those same sights and sounds in a very different, altogether more private setting.

By the time the orchestra slowed to a close, and the waltz came to an end, he had already decided he would not dance with her again. He could not risk his mind blurring any lines that might threaten what he hoped to build out of this marriage. He could not treat her the way a scoundrel would; he had to treat her the way ahusbandwould. A distant husband of convenience with too many debts to pay off.

So, he bowed to her. “A delightful first dance, Duchess.” He raised his gaze and smiled. “Best not sully it with a second.”

“But… we are allowed more than two, now that we are married,” she replied, her brow creasing in confusion.

He pressed a kiss to her gloved hand. “Indeed, but it is universally acknowledged that one should leave a rapt audience wanting more.” His eyes closed for a moment, inhaling the sweet scent of verbena and lavender drifting from her wrist. “I shall return you to your party.”

“My party has vanished,” she told him, her confusion frosting over into cold indifference.

“Nonsense.” He looped her arm through his and led her toward the spot where he had last seen Marina, the Duchess of Lymington.

Ten paces away, however, he witnessed something that made him want to pull Lydia back to the dance floor for a second waltz or perhaps a country dance. Anything to keep the other guests distracted and unaware of what was taking place between two older women who should have known better.

“I have stolen nothing from you! Are you quite mad?” the Dowager Duchess scoffed at Eliza. “It is obvious to anyone with eyes that Sir Matthew was flirting withme. I am at least a decade younger than you, for goodness’ sake! It is… grotesque that you might even suggest that he was flirting with you.”

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