Page 60 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

Oh.

It seemed Joanna had let her romantic inclinations misinterpret the situation, indeed.

Lord Knightley was naught more than a rake—one who enjoyed charming women of all shapes, ages, and sizes. Of course, he would not be interested in her aunt past the flirtatious comments and looks.

“How disappointing,” she mumbled under her breath, her eyes narrowing on the Marquess.

She knew there was no basis for her to develop any kind of animosity toward the man, yet she couldn’t help but feel for her dear aunt.

Emma was about to return to Joanna’s side when a deep voice spoke from just behind her.

“Lady Cuthbert.”

She turned to find the Duke of Westmere standing closer than she’d expected, his severe features thrown into sharp relief by the nearby candelabra.

Up close, the effect of his formal attire was even more devastating. The fine black wool emphasized his broad shoulders, and his pristine cravat highlighted the strong column of his throat.

Devastatingly handsome.

His scars only served to amplify his beauty in her eyes with an edge of savage danger that made her blood sing. She was beginning to think that maybe she was not as sensible as she’d always believed herself to be, after all.

“Your Grace,” she replied, inwardly cursing the breathlessness of her voice. She cleared her throat. “I-I trust you are enjoying the evening?”

“I find such gatherings tedious,” he answered, his gaze intense. “Though some aspects have proven… unexpectedly tolerable.”

Emma waited, her heart hammering foolishly against her ribs, hoping against hope that he would request the next dance. That was the only reason he would approach her like this, wasn’t it? It was well known, after all, that the Duke of Westmereneverapproached the ladies of the ton, especially not openly, like this.

Emma decided that she would not analyze her feelings further or investigate the reason why her heart pounded so hard in anticipation as she waited for him to speak first.

But the silence stretched between them, and he made no move to break it or at least strike up a conversation. No, he just stood there, those ocean-blue eyes of his never leaving hers even as she caught them trailing down her body.

What the hell was he doing? No, she supposed the question she ought to ask herself was,What the hell are you doing right now?Why was she waiting for this brute to ask her to dance? Since when had she harbored such desires?

She had better remember propriety and move away from him now.

“I should return to my aunt,” she said finally, as it was now clear that he did not intend to say anything else. She reached for another glass of lemonade for Joanna. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”

He inclined his head slightly but made no move to stop her as she walked away, her disappointment a heavy weight in her chest. She willfully had to stop it from blossoming into anything bigger than it already was.

It was for the best, she supposed. What manner of scandal would a dance with the Beast of Westmere have stirred in just one night? Indeed, it would have been a disaster too big to manage in the end. And she really did not need that sort of thing right now.

Her reputation was already hanging on by the skin of its teeth anyway.

CHAPTER18

“Ever the scoundrel, that Marquess, don’t you think, dear Emma?” Joanna said, turning to give her niece what she must have believed to be a humorous smile, but it only came out strained.

With her own heart in her throat, Emma approached her aunt, who was struggling to maintain a brave facade near a marble column, though the set of her shoulders betrayed her distress.

“He’s merely fulfilling his obligations as a host,” Emma said gently, offering the lemonade. “I am certain he would much prefer your company.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Joanna replied with forced lightness. “Lord Knightley is simply being kind to a spinster with limited prospects. I harbor no illusions.”

And while her aunt’s mouth said those flippant words, her eyes told a completely different story. The brown of her eyes was brimming with a crushed hope so profound that Emma couldn’t help but wonder if this was all but a silly crush on her aunt’s part.

Joanna was sensible. She would know better than to have feelings for a rake as popular and unrepentant as the Marquess, wouldn’t she?

Before Emma could respond, the music died down, and the dancers began dispersing. A cluster of elegantly dressed ladies approached, their expressions suggesting malice thinly veiled by social niceties.

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