Chapter 12
The following evening found them dancing at the Cleveland ball. One moment, Willow had admired a particularly obnoxious shade of yellow breeches and the next, the cords of the first waltz that evening had struck up. Ambrose had turned to her, his dark eyes alight with sincerity, and asked her to dance. At first, Willow had been stunned—no words escaped her lips. Her composure, thank God, had recovered quite quickly.
She was in his arms.
His strong, muscular, powerful arms. Surrounded by the woody musk of his scent. Why that thrilled her so much was not up for debate. They were at odds with each other. Or at least Willow thought they were. Last night had sent her mind spiraling. Ambrose had kissed her. Honestly, he mussed up her brain. And Lord Jonathan washere, in London. Always had been.
What Willow did know was that she was not supposed to feel this delighted at the prospect of dancing with her husband.
For the life of her, she could not determine the angle he was playing at. But then again, a waltz was hardly the stuff of war. A kiss was more debatable. Except in both cases, his proximity and overwhelming presence bestowed chaos on her senses.
Or was that, perhaps, his plan?
Regardless, he was an excellent dancer. So good, in fact, that with every step he took, her body burned with greater desire to draw nearer to him still. Which made him exceptional in two things so far—dancing and . . . well, three things then, Willow mused, if she counted lovemaking, which she indeed did, and kissing. The thought made her eyes drift to his lips.
How can I be so obsessed with a mouth?
And thinking about his lips caused her mind to wander over to their first night. And shesodid not want to wonder about that in the middle of a ballroom.
But how could she not think about that, with his body so sensually guiding hers in their dance? Willow felt a hot flush spread across her neck and ears.
For goodness’s sake!
She had to get a hold of herself. But really, was there anything this man did not excel at?
Oh yes. Yes, there was. Namely relationships.
And communication. But she wasn’t inclined to dwell on that at the moment, not while dancing in his arms.
For this moment, however fleeting, she could close her eyes and make-believe. They were in love. They were happy. Her husband was not a stick-in-the-mud duke with control issues, and she was not a woman who had married a man to use him as a stallion.
This night, this moment, almost seemed like a small reprieve.
It was also their first night out in public, and all eyes were on them, watching, observing, and waiting for the faintest mistake on their part.
Any other time, Willow would have danced herself dizzy or aided her cousin Belle in some mischief. But tonight, she had entered the marble halls of the ballroom at her husband’s side, head held high.
Not once had he left her side, introducing her to various acquaintances. Everyone clamored to get a peek at the couple of the season. They were like wolves, waiting for the first sign of weakness.
Let them watch, Willow thought. No matter what happened between her and Ambrose, she would not give cause for the gossipmongers to spread their ill will.
So she savored the sensation of being twirled around and around, and with every turn, it seemed like his hand on her back slid lower. Or was that her imagination? She glanced up at him to see his eyes glowing as they stared down at her.
Willow wondered if this would be their only dance tonight. She did not imagine that a lesser dance—the quadrille, for example—would tempt a man such as Ambrose. He was much too contained for that.
A wild thought suddenly occurred to her. Was she allowed to dance with other gentlemen?
She scrunched up her brow.
Since she refused to read the rules, she wasn’t sure. But then, she excelled at breaking rules—’twas herskill. Of course, instinct told her he wouldn’t mind as long as she remained above reproach.
Willow kept her gaze locked on the duke in an attempt to decipher his mood. Which was impossible. He had been acting strangely all evening, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly how or what it might be.
As usual, his posture was stiff and uncompromising. But at the same time, he appearedlessso. Was this his way of putting on a false air that nothing was amiss?
“You are an excellent dancer,” Willow murmured on another whirl.
“I do not dance often,” he returned.
