Page 11 of The Duke Who Dared Me
Not that she seemed to care.
He watched her hand on Nethercott’s shoulder.The way her eyes sparkled.The way she leaned in, a little closer than necessary.Or what would be considered polite, for that matter.
God above, she was performing.For him.
Alistair felt something hot and unpleasant curl beneath his ribs.
Irritation, surely.
Not jealousy.That would imply he cared who Verity danced with.That he noticed the curve of her waist or how her burgundy gown dipped at the neckline in such a way it invited a lingering glance.He remembered how she’d leaned close that afternoon in Percy’s drawing room and issued a challenge which had haunted him ever since.
“You seem distracted,” Clara offered gently.“It must be a heavy burden being everyone’s ideal before you’ve had the chance to be your own.”
He was too young to be saddled with his father’s title.That he knew.But as far as ever being his own?That was never going to be a luxury Alistair would experience.He grew up titled, with the expectation he would become the Duke of Tunstall and continue the good work his father saw to, here in London and in their small village in Kent.Yes, he was privileged, but his life was predestined.He would serve his title.Eventually, he would marry because he must.
Alistair cleared his throat, struck by her observation.“Apologies.I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Concern etched across Clara’s features.“Oh.Perhaps you should retire early this evening?”
Alistair didn’t answer because, across the ballroom, Verity winked at Nethercott—actually winked—and now, the sorry excuse for a man was bowing over her hand like some silly sophead.
He took a long, deep breath, trying to find an ounce of calm.“Would you care to dance, Lady Clara?”
Her face lit with pleasure.“I’d be honored, Your Grace.”
The ballroom crush was in full effect now as he led them out to dance.It was a tall room with elaborate frescos and gilded walls, and somehow the noise still echoed.The orchestra and guests buzzed and sang, and his heart beat wildly in his chest as he attempted to keep a calm, unbothered appearance.
He was a duke, after all.He was respected.Hell, until last week, he was above petty bets.
But as he placed his hand gently on Clara’s waist and turned them into the first steps of the waltz, his gaze drifted.Verity stood alone now, her fan half lifted in front of her face as she scanned the room.Not looking for Hugh.
Looking for him.
As their eyes met, his grip on Clara’s waist tightened for a beat too long.Verity didn’t smile, didn’t move, only pinned him there onto the dance floor like one of the many butterflies she collected from the gardens at Warwick Cottage.He wondered if she realized she only collected fragile things.
“Your Grace?”Clara gently tapped her fingers upon his shoulder and spun.
“Yes?”
The pair weaved in and out of couples until they spun around one another, and Alistair drew Lady Clara close.He should ask her something about herself, be polite, and make conversation.She was, after all, the most convenient option for a bride at the end of the Season.
A wife?Was he seriously putting any credibility to this wager?He was a damn duke.He could do as he wished.He didn’t need to marry to win a bet because his friend’s little sister was stubborn.
“Are you well?”
He nodded, resisting the urge to glance back at Verity.He could feel her staring.
“Do you have any interests, Lady Clara?”
She was a petite woman with a shapely figure and the most demure, graceful features he had ever seen.Maybe it was the pink gown, but she seemed a fair deal more reserved than the rest of the debutantes in attendance this evening.
“I prefer the country, Your Grace.I’m fond of reading and drawing, and I have the most loyal pug named Pudding.”
At least they were compatible.Yes, Alistair enjoyed London, but he never loved the demands on him here.At least in the country, he was afforded more time at the stable.
“Do you have any pets, Your Grace?”
“I have a godson, Colin.Does that count?”
