Page 55 of Tempting the Reclusive Duke
"Miss Whitcombe," Theodore said simultaneously.
"I am not," she continued, raising her voice just enough to carry to their avidly watching audience, "a damsel in distress requiring rescue. I am not a problem requiring a solution. I am not a fallen woman in need of redemption or a scholarly curiosity in need of preservation." She looked between them, these two men who claimed to want her best interests. "I am a woman with my own voice, and I have already used it. Mr. Browne knows my answer. Your Grace has no standing to speak on my behalf. And everyone else..." She turned to address the watching crowd directly. "Everyone else may occupy themselves with their own affairs, which I'm certain are far more interesting than mine."
The silence that followed was absolute. Then, from somewhere near the potted palms, came the distinctive sound of slow applause. Harriet, bless her, had started clapping, and after a moment of shock, a few others joined in. Whether from appreciation or embarrassment at being called out, Eveline neither knew nor cared.
Theodore's face had gone through several colors during her speech, finally settling on a mottled red that clashed unfortunately with his burgundy waistcoat. "I see," he said stiffly. "I apologise for my... persistence. It was ill-done."
He bowed to her, but not to Adrian, she noticed, and turned to leave. But at the last moment, he paused.
"I hope you find what you're looking for, Miss Whitcombe," he said quietly. "Though I fear it may cost you more than you're prepared to pay."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd that parted to let him pass with the eager efficiency of those scenting fresh gossip to dissect. Eveline watched him go with genuine regret. He was a good man who'd offered what he could, and she'd hurt him with her refusal. The fact that she'd had no choice didn't make it easier.
"Eveline."
She turned to find Adrian still standing there, close enough now that shecould see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes, could smell that achingly familiar scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him. He looked as he had that first time in Hatchard's; controlled, elegant, slightly dangerous. But now she could see beneath the facade to the man underneath, could read the tension in his shoulders and the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
"Your Grace," she said formally, aware of their rapt audience. "I didn't expect to see you here. You famously avoid such gatherings."
"I do." He seemed to be struggling with something, his usual eloquence deserting him. "I came because...that is, I thought..."
"You thought I might need rescuing?" The words came out more bitter than intended. "How chivalrous."
"No." The denial was immediate and fierce. "I came because I couldn't stay away. Because the thought of you facing them alone..." He gestured at the watching crowd with barely controlled violence. "Because I'm a selfish simpleton who needed to see you, even if only from across a crowded room."
The admission hung between them, too honest for their public setting, too raw for comfortable social discourse. Around them, fans fluttered faster as matrons absorbed this fresh development in the ongoing drama.
"Adrian," she said softly, forgetting formality in the face of his obvious distress. "You shouldn't have come. This only makes things worse."
"Worse?" He laughed, the sound harsh. "How could they possibly be worse? You're already condemned in their eyes, already suffering for my weakness. At least let me..."
"What? Share my disgrace? Add to the scandal? Give them more fuel for their gossip?" She shook her head. "I don't need a knight errant, Adrian. I never did."
"I know." The words seemed torn from him. "Heavens help me, I know. You've never needed anyone, least of all me. But I..."
He stopped, seeming suddenly to become aware of their audience again. When he spoke next, it was in a different tone—formal, controlled, but with something underneath that made her pulse race.
"One dance, Eveline." He extended his hand, a challenge and invitation combined. "Let them see that you are not alone, whatever they might whisper. Give me that, at least."
She stared at his outstretched hand, knowing what accepting would mean. Dancing with him would cement her ruin, would confirm every speculation about their relationship, would close doors that were already barely cracked. It would be the final nail in the coffin of her respectability.
But oh, how she wanted to take his hand. How she wanted to feel his arms around her again, even in the formal confines of a dance. How she wanted to show every gossiping matron and simpering miss that she regretted nothing, that given the choice, she would make the same decisions again.
"This is madness," she whispered.
"Yes," he agreed, his hand still extended. "Complete and utter madness."
The orchestra, with timing that suggested divine intervention or mortal mischief, began the opening strains of another waltz. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, one of those pieces that seemed designed to accompany moments of terrible decision.
Eveline looked at Adrian's hand, at his face with its mixture of hope and resignation, at the watching crowd that waited breathlessly for her choice.
Then she smiled, not the polite society smile she'd worn like armor all evening, but the real one, the one that had gotten her into trouble in libraries and bookshops and quiet moments stolen from propriety.
"Well," she said, placing her hand in his, "I've never been accused of wisdom."
The shock that rippled through the ballroom was almost physical. She felt it in the collective intake of breath, saw it in the widening eyes and dropping fans, heard it in the sudden buzz of whispers that rose like a storm.
But all of that faded to nothing the moment Adrian's hand settled at her waist, the moment he drew her into the familiar circle of his arms.
