Page 25 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
“You, of all people, ought to know better,” Lady Jersey batted her fan against his arm. Havencrest’s discomfort made the muscles in her neck bunch into tight knots. Antonia might not have all the details, but she was intimately familiar with the When had she become protective of him?
With hindsight, Antonia could name the precise moment. It had been when Havencrest had jumped into a leaky boat and chased her out onto a freezing river. She had known the moment she’d cast off that this might be the final impulse that killed her. She never liked to admit fear, even to herself. Havencrest had cared whether she lived or died when no one else had. She…liked him. The man, not the duke. Havencrest was the most arrogant person she had ever met. But in the moments when he let down his guard and stopped trying to control her, Antonia also found him compelling.
She picked her gaze up from examining the hem of Lady Jersey’s gown long enough to cast a glance at her friend, but Margaret’s face had acquired a permanent beam of good humor.
“Miss Lowry. Do you care to dance?”
Antonia’s attention jerked upward. She swallowed. “Your Grace, I must decline.”
Wasn’t she the very picture of demure, shy womanhood? If only Lady Jersey and her friends knew what a viper they had invited to their midst, they’d be calling for smelling salts.
Havencrest hesitated, as if he were genuinely crushed by her reluctance. But that couldn’t be.
“Why?” he asked, with a note of genuine surprise.
“Because I hardly know how,” Antonia murmured.
“Then I shall teach you.”
Havencrest’s confidence made Antonia want to smack him.
“Must I remind you we are here for another purpose entirely?” she demanded under her breath. Margaret waved. She waved back, feeling as insipid as the young ladies. Thank goodness Darby and his paramour were not in attendance. Antonia didn’t think she could bear the scorn of having nearly cost an innocent woman her life.
“What better place for a private discussion than on the dance floor?” Havencrest insisted.
“In front of all these people?” she asked. He was not going to let this drop. Raw embarrassment surged through her. She had made it through six months of near-constant socializing without participating in more than a handful of dances. Country dances, ones she could stumble through while laughing at her own ignorance as a foreigner.
“A waltz is the most secluded place in the room,” he declared, taking her firmly by the hand. There was no avoiding it now. Antonia tried to remember the steps. One-two-three, one-two-three…it couldn’t be that difficult.
The third time she trod on his toes, however, Havencrest remarked, “You are without a doubt the worst dancer ever to grace a ballroom.”
“Yes, well, some of us were busy fending for themselves while you lot were fooling about with fancy instructors,” Antonia muttered, counting again. One-two-three, one-two-three. She could do this.
“Antonia.”
His use of her given name made her stumble. He brought her up short and lifted her chin with one hand. “Look me in the eye, like this.” His left arm encircled her waist, drawing her close to the solid wall of his chest. At his neck glinted a ruby stick pin that might net her a decent trade once she found a new fence for her wares. “I said, look at me.”
Thoughts of thievery fled.
“Follow my lead,” he commanded. They were in motion again. One-two-three. He tossed her about like a tiny ship. Antonia struggled to keep up, partly because she kept shying away from meeting his gaze full-on. Instead she fixated on the curve of his lower lip. It plumped in the center in a way that would have been feminine on any other man. But not him. No, Havencrest was hard muscle and long bones. Being encased in his hold made her stomach flip. It had nothing to do with her rising anxiety over drawing so much attention. They were supposed to be enemies, but right now, they looked far too cozy for dislike. She stumbled, dug her gloved fingers into his arm, and gasped when Havencrest righted her. They whirled, and her head spun.
“Stop trying to lead, Antonia.” His jaw tensed.
She snapped her gaze to his. “You may lead on the dance floor. I lead when we are off of it.” He did something to make her stumble. Antonia tripped and fell into his arms. “You are making a laughingstock of me.”
“You have accomplished that for yourself.” The sardonic half-grin was back. “Did you never think to acquire the rudiments of social polish to make your presence among thetonmore convincing?”
No, of course, she hadn’t. Antonia’s plans were rarely more than a vague outline of where she wanted to go. An arrow pointing in the direction of a single goal: wealth. Money meant security. It was the chance to stop running from her past and catch her breath. For now, all she possessed was a set of clothes in a secret rented room, for example. A sheaf of forged documents in a name not her own. She had learned to write by tracing the letters from discarded newspapers and broadsides. After she had left Mrs. Beckwith’s, Antonia had clawed her way into literacy. Mimicry was her best and possibly only talent.
“When would I have had the time to do that?” she wheezed as he turned her away from another couple. A heady scent of perfume whisked past her nose. They had nearly collided with the other dancers.” Why do you hate your grandmother so much?”
Havencrest missed one sure step and caught himself. His smirk faded. Antonia’s stomach turned warm with satisfaction. “You’re trying to lead again.”
“Lady Summervale dislikes you,” Antonia guessed. Now, she met his eyes. They glittered hard like the fancy blue diamonds prized by French aristocrats. More cursed jewels. It was practically an epidemic. She stopped fighting and let Havencrest guide her along blindly. Antonia didn’t bother trying to match his steps.
“It was my father she couldn’t stand,” he said. “Not when my mother eloped with him, and especially not after he took a mistress and broke my mother’s heart. That is the woman from whom you obtained the lower half of the Heart’s Cry.”
“Ah.” Antonia didn’t know what to say to this. Wealthy aristocrats were not supposed to be people who experienced pain and struggle—they were marks to be relieved of their ill-gotten wealth. Even the purported self-made men flowing out of America on a tide of riches had more much luck than intelligence or kindness. They profited from the work of many, in Antonia’s view, and no amount of philanthropy could make up for the fact that they had built that wealth by exploiting people like her. “Is this why the Havencrest men are called rakes?”
