Page 10 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
There was the faintest curve to his lips. Amusement flickered there—as though he saw through her poise, understood that she would not feign coyness, and found her defiance charming.
Emma held his gaze, letting the silence stretch until it shimmered between them like a taut ribbon. She could deny him—watch that charming smile flicker, justslightly, and perhaps silence the gossip that had been so carefully cultivated.
But she had sown those rumors herself.
And far more dangerously… shedid notwant to refuse him.
She inclined her head with practiced poise. “Of course, Your Grace. The honor is all mine.”
She slipped her fingers into his—warm, familiar, utterly assured—and let him guide her onto the dance floor. Around them, the orchestra struck up. Emma felt the weight of every watching eye—but none of it seemed to matter.
Not when his hand settled at the small of her back.
That single point of contact might as well have been a brand, sending heat spiraling through her corseted frame. His other hand clasped hers in a hold that was neither loose nor indecent, but suggested, quite boldly, that she belonged precisely where he had placed her. He drew her closer and she gasped.
A breathless inch of space separated them.
The music soared, and without warning, they moved.
The Duke glided with the grace of a man born to command ballrooms and battlefields alike—fluid, effortless, maddeningly composed. Emma, in contrast, felt every inch the mere mortal beside him. Her feet, ordinarily so nimble, now seemed reluctant participants. But by some miracle—or sheer force of will—she did not falter.
The room spun by in a glittering blur, all chandeliers and jewels and fluttering fans, but none of it touched her. The sweeping strains of the waltz lifted them into a world all their own, suspended in a silken bubble where only they existed.
“You dance well,” the Duke intoned, his breath brushing her ear like the ghost of a kiss.
Emma ducked her head coyly. “As do you, Your Grace.”
A beat passed. Then, his voice dropped lower. “—Given that I was made to understand you rarely danced.”
Emma’s gaze shot up to meet his.
Whom have you been talking to form that opinion? I have tried my hardest not to be noticed by anyone.
“Is that so…?” Emma replied coolly. “I am not sure where you have taken your information, but I am pleased to say, you have been misinformed.”
“Mm.” The sound was noncommittal. “It has also been observed that you seem to avoid courtship rather…actively. Which is curious.”
Emma lifted her chin. “Curious how, Your Grace?”
“Curious—” he snarled abruptly, gaze sharpening like a blade catching light, “because women in your position tend to be surrounded by prospects. Butcuriously, you are not.”
The ill-conceived compliment landed like a match in dry straw. She opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed on.
“Andcurious-erstill,” he drew her closer, visage contorting from a barbarianprinceto barbariantyrant,“is how the very idea of you being courted—by me, no less—has made such quick work of the local gossip circuit.”
Each word landed with the precision of an arrow. It suddenly became quite clear to Emma why he had earned such a formidable reputation. Without the hint of a warning, he spun her, a fluid motion that left her head reeling. Before she could regain her balance, he slammed her into the hard wall of his chest.
A faint tremor passed through her, though she did not let it reach her face. “Do I take you put stock in idle gossip, Your Grace?”
He smiled, but it no longer reached his eyes. “Not often. But I am more inclined to listen when the story spreads with such vehemence—almost as though encouraged.”
The implication was unmistakable. Emma’s stomach twisted, though her expression remained carefully neutral.
“I have spread no rumors if that is what you mean to say, Your Grace,” she defended, each word deliberate. Anothertechnicaltruth. It was Elsie who had done the spreading. “And I do not concern myself with what others choose to say. If there are whispers, they began without me.”
And yet, she could feel the heat rising at the nape of her neck—because she had wanted the whispers. Just not like this.
He studied her then—not idly, not like a man indulging curiosity, but with the clinical focus of someone trained to find fault in steel.
