“What? He needs to hear it. Percy, approach her like a normal human being, not like some lovesick fool from a Gothic novel.”
Percy straightened his shoulders with visible effort. “Right. Like a normal. Human. Being.” He took a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”
They watched as he made his way across the ballroom, weaving between the other guests with determination that was only slightly undermined by his obvious nervousness.
“You could have been kinder,” Samantha murmured, not looking at Ewan as she spoke.
“Kindness won’t help him if he makes a fool of himself,” Ewan replied, hyper-aware of her proximity, of the subtle scent of jasmine that seemed to cling to her skin. “He needs to learn confidence, not coddling.”
“There’s a difference between confidence and arrogance, Your Grace.”
The formal address stung more than it should have. After what had passed between them in his chambers, the return to such cold courtesy felt like a slap. “Indeed, there is, Duchess. Though I suspect you’ve forgotten which is which.”
She turned to face him then, her green eyes flashing with irritation. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me perfectly well.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You’ve been avoiding me fordays, skulking about the house like a guilty child. If that’s not arrogance, I don’t know what is.”
Her cheeks flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment he couldn’t tell. “I have not been skulking.”
“No? Then what would you call it?” He challenged, one brow raised at her even as he maintained a socially acceptable smile on his lips.
“I would call it maintaining appropriate boundaries in our arrangement,” she said stiffly.
“Appropriate boundaries.” He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
The orchestra began the opening notes of a waltz, and couples began moving toward the center of the ballroom, cutting off that conversation before it could even fully begin. Ewan held out his hand with practiced elegance.
“Shall we dance, my dear tigress?”
For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Her gaze flickered to his outstretched hand, then back to his face, something unreadable passing through her expression. Finally, she placed her gloved fingers in his.
“Very well,” she said. He decided not to think about the way his heart fluttered in response.
The moment his hand settled on her waist, the moment her fingers curled around his shoulder, every rational thought fled Ewan’s mind. The ballroom, the other dancers, the watching eyes of the ton—it all faded into insignificance.
There was only Samantha, the warmth of her body mere inches from his, the way she moved with unconscious grace as he led her through the steps.
“You dance beautifully,” he said, his voice rougher than intended.
“Thank you.” Her reply was polite, distant, but he could feel the tension thrumming through her body, could see the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat.
“Are you going to spend the entire dance pretending you can barely tolerate my presence?”
Her eyes snapped to his. “I’m not pretending anything.”
“No? Then why do you look like you’d rather be anywhere else in the world?”
“Perhaps because I would,” she shot back, though the breathless quality of her voice undermined the cutting words.
He spun her then, perhaps with more force than the dance required, bringing her back against his chest with an impact that made them both gasp.
“Liar.”
“You are insufferable,” she whispered, but her fingers tightened on his shoulder, and he could feel the way her body responded to his nearness despite her words.
“And you, my dear wife, are a coward.” He said, even as he knew he was referring to himself as much as he was accusing her.
But he knew that the accusation hit its mark. Her spine stiffened, and she glared up at him with fire in her eyes that made his pulse quicken.
