Page 23 of The Duke's Inconvenient Bride
“Sorry,” he muttered.
He held her stiffly. She tried to relax and enjoy the moment, but it was impossible when he repeatedly trod on her toes and stumbled over nothing.
An awkward silence fell between them. The first time they’d met, she’d conversed with him easily, but now she couldn’t think of anything to say.
At least she’d danced with two gentlemen already, even if both had been disappointing. She’d imagined being swept off her feet by a gorgeous dark-haired man who’d suddenly realized he was unable to live without her.
“No such luck,” she whispered.
“What was that?” Mr. Mayhew asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “I was counting steps.”
He chuckled. “Thank goodness I’m not the only one who has to do that. You ladies always make it look so easy.”
She softened. Perhaps all was not lost. She did tend to be overly dramatic.
“You are doing very well, sir.”
Mirth sparkled in his eyes. “Not as well as you. Or your sister.” His expression turned rapturous. “Dancing with her is like waltzing with an angel.”
She pressed her lips together. Or maybe not.
Perhaps her third dance would be magical.
When she separated from Mr. Mayhew, Violet was nowhere to be seen, so Emma sought out their mother. She stood near the refreshments table, drinking punch.
“That looks good,” Emma said, reaching for a glass.
Lady Carlisle intercepted her and handed her a lemonade. She leaned forward and murmured, “The punch is laced. If you wish to keep your wits about you, drink only the lemonade.”
Emma sipped the lemonade, savoring the tang on her tongue. “I can’t help but notice that you are drinking punch.”
Lady Carlisle’s mouth curled. “That is one of the benefits of being a married lady. One day, you’ll be able to have the punch too.”
They finished their drinks and passed the glasses to a servant.
“Now.” Lady Carlisle took Emma’s arm. “Let’s get you your third dance. Are there any gentlemen here whom you have not already met?”
Emma surveyed the room, her gaze drawn to a pair of men standing near a wall. The taller of the pair tilted his head back and laughed. He ran his hand through his tousled brown hair, and one side of his mouth hitched up in response to whatever his companion had said.
“Them,” Emma said. The men looked similar enough to be brothers, and she had no doubt her mother would know who they were. Her knowledge of the ton was frighteningly encyclopedic.
“Jonathan and Marcus Adair, the sons of Baron Marwick,” Lady Carlisle said, leading Emma toward them. Jonathan is the second son, and Marcus is the third.”
So neither was the heir. Not that Emma cared either way.
Lady Carlisle called out to the men as she and Emma came closer. Both turned, and the taller fellow broke out in a smile brighter than the midsummer sun.
Introductions were made, and the taller Mr. Marwick—incidentally, the younger of the two—claimed her for a dance.
“I have not seen you in London before,” he said as he guided her expertly through the steps of the waltz. “I would remember.”
His chin stayed high while he turned her, but his rich brown gaze followed her movement, and when his hand landed on her waist, a shiver rippled down her spine.
“This is the first season I’m out,” she said. “I spent most of my life in our country home in Essex before this year.”
His smile widened. “You hail from Essex?”
