Anthony turned around to face his friend. “We are going to see my duchess.”
“Lady Sarah would never set one silk-slippered foot inside the Haydon Assembly Rooms. She would rather drink henbane. Nor can I believe she would send you a dead plant—” He broke off, and his eyes narrowed as he studied his friend. “You have changed your mind. You have chosen someone else. Pray, tell me it is so.”
“It is indeed so.”
“I am hearing angels sing, Tremore. Or have you been having a great joke at my expense all along? Either way, I am too relieved to care. So who is this new choice? What future duchess attends assemblies at Haydon Rooms and sends you dead, frozen plants? Not a country girl, surely?”
“You could say yes, although it would be more accurate to say a multitude of countries.”
“You have intrigued me.”
“Yes,” Anthony said as he walked toward the door with his friend following him. “I thought I might.”
During her first public assembly in London, Daphne expected to spend much of her time in observation of the dancing rather than participating in it, but much to her surprise, she was asked to dance quite often. None of her partners tonight could equal the man who had taught her to dance in the first place, and she could not help making comparisons.
“How do you like London, Miss Wade?” Sir William Laverton asked her as they moved through the long, slow quadrille in which they were engaged. “Have you visited any of the museums?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, trying to keep her attention on her partner, but her gaze kept straying to the doorway of the Haydon Rooms. An ice plant meant a rejection of addresses, but she did not know if Anthony would accept that answer or not. She half expected him to come through the doorway any moment.
“Given your eminent father, Miss Wade, you will find the museums of London fascinating,” Sir William went on, and she forced her attention back to him, trying not to yawn. Her partner was an agreeable enough man, but he did not spar or flirt with her or challenge her wits. He was not the sort of man who could tear her heart in half with a smile or burn her to the core with the touch of his hand. She ought to be glad of it.
The music stopped abruptly, bringing every person engaged in the dance to a halt. Her partner was staring at some point beyond her shoulder, and Daphne turned around. Though she was not wearing her spectacles, she did not need them to know the identity of the man standing in the doorway.
Voice after voice died away and the room became silent as the grave. Even those who did not know his identity would have been able to discern at once that someone of nobility had just entered the room. People began to bow, bending before him like young willows in a strong wind, but he seemed oblivious to them.
Though he was a blur to her eyes, Daphne felt his gaze light on her. She had enough vision to see him take a step toward her and stop again.
Another man followed Anthony through the door and paused beside him, a man dressed all in black, but for his snowy white linen shirt. The room was so quiet that the man’s sigh was audible to all. “Really, Tremore,” he drawled, “you spoil everyone’s fun just by arriving.” With a sweeping gesture, he went on, “They are struck all a heap. Do the customary ducal thing and tell them to get on with it. If you do not, I fear we shan’t have a single dance with the ladies.”
“That would be a great pity,” Anthony replied, and she could still feel his gaze on her as he went on, “I have come to have a true fondness for dancing.”
He looked away from her and acknowledged the entire room. “Carry on, everyone.”
The music resumed, and Daphne’s partner continued leading her around the floor. “The Duke of Tremore,” Sir William commented as they joined hands and stepped close to each other. “Our little assembly here cannot possibly interest him. I wonder what he is doing here.”
“I cannot imagine,” she lied as they both stepped back.
As Daphne moved with Sir William through the intricate steps of the quadrille, she kept her attention firmly focused on the dance, and it was not until the music ended that she caught sight of Anthony again. As she was escorted back to Sir Edward and Lady Fitzhugh, she saw that he and his friend had joined their party. She could not avoid him.
“Miss Wade,” he said, bowing to her. “How delightful to see you again. May I introduce you to this gentleman?” He gestured to the man beside him. “This is Mr. Dylan Moore, an old and valued friend of mine. Moore, this is Miss Daphne Wade. You may, perhaps, have heard of Dylan, Miss Wade, for he is England’s greatest composer.”
“You exaggerate my talents, Tremore.” The man in black bowed to her. “I understand you are quite the traveler, and have been in many exotic places, Miss Wade. Sir Edward here has been telling me of your adventures in the deserts of the East with your famous father. Have you truly ridden a camel?”
“Many times,” she answered, trying not to look at Anthony. “But there is nothing exotic about it, I assure you. A single day’s ride on a camel is enough to make one painfully aware of every muscle one possesses. It is as romantic an adventure as tooth drawing.”
Everyone laughed, including Anthony, but as the musicians began to tune their instruments to the next dance, his amusement faded to a serious countenance. “I should like to hear more of the camels, Miss Wade. If you are not otherwise engaged, perhaps you would do me the honor of dancing the next with me.”
“I do not think—” She broke off, but she was acutely aware of every person in the room watching them, and she knew she could not say no. Her refusal would be a slight to him and to his rank, and she could not do such a thing to him in front of all these people. “Of course, your grace,” she murmured, forcing a disinterested politeness into her voice as he held out his hand to her. “I would be honored.”
She took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the floor. She could feel the fascinated stares of everyone in the room as Anthony put his hand on her waist and lifted her other hand in his. She was sure she would stumble over his feet, and she looked down.
“Look at me, Daphne. Not at the floor.”
She compromised, focusing her own gaze on the knot of his cravat, trying not to think of all the people staring at them. But her fear of making a public mistake proved unfounded, for when the waltz began, her body remembered all their hours of practice together, and she followed his lead with ease.
“I am delighted to finally have the opportunity of seeing the pink evening gown,” he commented as they waltzed. “I remember how delighted you were to have acquired it.”
Startled, Daphne looked up into his face. “You remember that?”
