Page 57 of A Deal with the Duke of Ice

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring any punch.”

Rosaline spun around, her eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”

“The same as you. I was invited.”

“No, I mean, Cordelia was supposed to…”

Benedict chuckled. “If you intend to scare me away, Rosaline, you might want to employ someone more intimidating than Miss Atwood.”

Rosaline sighed, shaking her head. “Well, what do you want?”

Benedict moved next to her, leaning on the balcony wall. Their shoulders pressed together, and Benedict could smell a faint, sweetly spicy scent coming off Rosaline. It was some strange, delicate perfume, and it was intoxicating.

He cleared his throat, trying to keep his focus on the task at hand.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Yes.” Rosaline replied. “I didn’t want to see you.”

“I’m not paying you one hundred pounds to avoid me.”

Benedict meant it as something of a joke, but it fell flat. Rosaline’s face hardened, and she looked away.

“Thank you for reminding me.”

Benedict sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, that was unkind.”

“You were simply speaking the truth.”

“Well, be that as it may. Look, Rosaline, I came to apologize.” On impulse, Benedict reached out and took her hand. It was an awkward angle, and his fingers rested on the soft, white underside of Rosaline’s wrist. He could feel her pulse hammering under his fingertips.

Was her skin this soft all over?

Benedict swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek to hold himself in check. He longed to pull her into his arms, to kiss her, to touch her, to feel her warmth against his body.

That would be disastrous for them both, but especially for Rosaline. Just because the noise, heat, and crowds were more distant out here didn’t mean that prying eyes weren’t watching them. There were no private moments at a ball, everyone knew that.

“Iam sorry.” Benedict murmured softly. “I should not have left you alone. The truth is…”

She glanced up at him, and Benedict’s words faltered on his lips. What would she think of him if he told her the truth? Could she respect a man still tormented by an old tragedy and a child’s nightmare?

Why on earth did he care?

“The truth is, I did not think.” Benedict finished lamely. “My grandmother was very straight with me; I can tell you. She was very angry at me.”

Rosaline took her hand away. “Did she tell you to apologize?”

“What? No, I…”

“Ah, Miss Wyre, I was looking for you! I… oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were occupied.”

Some bland-faced gentleman appeared at the doorway, his smile withering on his face as Benedict fixed him with a ferocious glare. He shrank back, mumbling apologies.

“It’s not trouble, Mr. Thompson. Lord Benedict, you must excuse me, I am engaged to dance with Mr. Thompson for the next set.”

Benedict’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm.

“Iwant to make it up to you.” He murmured. “Please.”

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