Page 60 of His Runaway Duchess

“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I didn’t mean to break your rule about him being let into the gallery.”

He shook his head. “It’s done. It hardly matters.”

The music was speeding up, drawing to a triumphant climax. Soon, the dance would be over, the dancers would laugh and clap and bow to each other, and then step off the dance floor.

Daphne knew, somehow, that she and Edward would be among them.

“You’re a good dancer,” she heard herself saying. “It’s a pleasant surprise.”

She was rewarded with a wry smile. “Thank you.”

“As to these rules of yours, I wanted to talk to you about it all.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I would hurry up if I were you. The dance is almost over.”

There could be other dances,she felt like saying.We could dance together for the next set, and the next, and the next, if we wished.

But you don’t wish, do you, Edward? This will be our first dance, and also our last.

I can’t make you out at all. Do you want me, or do you not? Do you even know yourself?

“I can’t live a life dictated by rules and distance,” she said. “I would like us to renegotiate.”

He frowned. “Renegotiate? We’re barely married. You might prefer the rules. It’s good to set boundaries in a marriage, is it not?”

She shook her head. “I can’t live a life alone. I won’t.”

The music ended with a flourish, making her jump. The dance seemed to grind to a halt, and Daphne could barely contain her irritation.

All around them, partners were stepping away from each other, laughing and smiling.

Edward did not let go of her. His arm was still around her waist, his chest still pressed against hers. His fingers tightened around her smaller hand, and she felt tingles rush up her arm, prickles of desire tracing a path up and down her spine.

It was not convenient, but of course, there was nothing to do about it.

“You want my company, then, Duchess?” Edward murmured, staring down into her eyes with an expression she could not interpret. “How very interesting.”

She felt herself turning red, the flush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks.

Part of Daphne wanted to be defiant, to pull herself free from his grasp and loudly inform him that shedid notand would noteverwant his wretched company. It would feel good in the moment, despite the forthcoming embarrassment.

She did not, though, even though his grip on her waist and her hand was not tight enough to prevent her from pulling away.

“I…” she managed, but no proper words came out.

Edward only smiled and released her. Stepping away, he executed a neat bow at the waist and abruptly turned and strode off into the crowd.

Daphne brushed out her hair, then plaited it. After a moment, she unplaited it and brushed it loose again. Perhaps it would look better that way.

It did not look better—she looked a little too messy now—and with a growl of annoyance, she began to plait it again.

Downstairs, everything was quiet. The last guests had left, and she had watched the carriage trundle down the drive. It had been close to an hour since she had retired to bed, slipping away to avoid the meaningful smiles and raised eyebrows that her guests would surely throw her way.

Edward had all but disappeared since their dance. She had seen him, occasionally, moving here and there, speaking to his son, speaking to Mrs. Trench, speaking to a few select family friends. Polite and pleasant, he was everywhere and nowhere and seemed adept at avoiding most of the guests.

And his bride, it seemed.

Daphne did not remember the name of the maid who’d helped her out of her wedding gown and into her night dress. She thought she should try and remember, as it was that woman who was likely going to wait on her from now on. The girl had chattered, seeming friendly enough, but Daphne had found herself staring despondently into the mirror and saying nothing as she was unlaced out of her many layers of clothing.

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