But the truth was, Grey simply wanted to dance with her.
So dance with her he would. He would just have to make sure to keep his wits about him as he did.
Beatrice was concentrating so hard on dancing the minuet that she didn’t notice Grey had returned until he spoke in that seductive voice of his.
“If you’re ready to dance with a partner, Miss Wolfe, I’m at your disposal.”
Gwyn greeted this announcement with a clap of her hands. “Wonderful! Beatrice really needs a man to practice with because when I take the lead, I forget what I’m doing and fall into the woman’s part. Much more of that and she’ll never get the way of it.”
Beatrice wiped her clammy hands on her skirt. What if she made a fool of herself in front of him? “The one to blame for my not having the way of it isme.”
“Nonsense.” Gwyn smiled. “You’re better than you think. And Grey will help you perfect your dancing, I’m sure.” She glanced to the door. “Or Thorn, if he’s the one to dance with you. WhereisThorn, anyway?”
When she looked to Grey for an answer, he shrugged. “Last I saw him, he was heading off to find brandy.”
“Lord help me,” Gwyn muttered. “You two start while I fetch him. But I’m not letting him dance if he’s foxed. That won’t help anyone.”
“It certainly won’t help Bea,” Gwyn’s mother remarked from the pianoforte, although Gwyn was already gone. Aunt Lydia shot Grey a defeated look. “Can’t you get Thorn to stop drinking so much, dearest?”
Grey walked into the alcove and around the pianoforte to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Everyone grieves in their own way.Youtry to stay busy to keep your mind off missing Maur—missing Father. Thorn drinks. You must give him time to mourn.”
His mother patted his hand. “And how doyougrieve, Grey?”
He bent to kiss her head. “By teaching Miss Wolfe to dance the minuet, of course. Play some music so we can try to forget our loss. Then when Gwyn arrives with Thorn, they can join in.”
His mother’s gaze darkened. “It will be a slow and somber minuet. I can’t bear a happy tune just now.”
“All the better to help Miss Wolfe learn,” he said, his voice noticeably softer. He squeezed his mother’s shoulder, then returned to Beatrice and held out his hand. “Shall we?”
As she let him lead her to the floor, Beatrice was all too aware that the duke was holding her hand. And neither of them wore gloves, as they normally would in a ballroom. Granted, he didn’t hold her hand long, since the dance didn’t allow for it, but still, every brush of his fingers against hers drove the air right out of her lungs.
After a few steps, which she thought she’d executed fairly well, he caught her hand for a turn, his gaze intent upon her face. “You dance better than you led me to believe.”
“Your sister is an excellent teacher.”
“And you’re a quick study,” he said blandly.
“Thank God!” she blurted out. “I-I mean, thank heaven. I was sure I’d bumble through it once I was dancing with an actual man.”
Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Anactualman? As opposed to what? A painting of one? An effigy? A statue, perhaps.”
Against her better judgment, she laughed. “As opposed to your sister. I haven’t managed to master the French version, though. I can only do the English one.”
“Not too many people do the French step in London anyway. But if you really want to learn, it’s not so difficult. Just let me lead you.”
“I will do whatever you wish, Your Grace.”
Something dangerously enticing flickered in his gaze. “Every time you offer to do whatever I wish, you tempt me, Beatrice,” he murmured. “So don’t offer unless you mean it.”
Blast, she was in trouble. If he kept saying things like that, she’d melt into a puddle. The duke could seduce a saint, and she was no saint, just a woman caught in circumstances beyond her control, with a man who turned her knees wobbly.
Now he was looking at her as he had in the woods yesterday—with hunger in his eyes. As the music continued, she forgot about counting the beats or feeling clumsy. She matched his motions, relishing the masterful way he led her, his hands clasping hers as they circled each other. His eyes flashed green or blue depending on whether he faced the windows as they turned, and the effect was hypnotic.
Dancingwith him was hypnotic. Every clasp of his hand as they came together was a pleasurable agony, every dark smile an invitation to debauchery. She could hardly catch her breath, her heart was pounding so. Surely he must hear it and think her the veriest peagoose he’d ever met, to be so flustered by a mere dance.
Suddenly, Gwyn burst into the room. “Mama, Thorn is leaving for London!”
The music ended abruptly. “What?” Aunt Lydia rose. “But why?”
