“Sir Matthew has found another partner. Come.” Seizing George by the wrist Aunt Agatha tugged at her to move. On the other side of the ballroom George could see her erstwhile partner, Sir Matthew, bowing over the hand of another young lady. He caught George’s eye, grimaced a rueful apology and led the young lady onto the floor.
How odd. Sir Matthew had been so keen to dance with her that he had reserved this dance several days earlier. What had changed his mind?
Bemused, George allowed herself to be towed. Until she saw where they were headed. “Oh, no. Not him.” She tried to pull away, but her aunt’s bony fingers gripped like death.
“He is an honored guest and you will not make a fuss,” Aunt Agatha snapped. Short of wrestling with her elderly aunt in public, George’s only alternative was to allow herself be led up to the Duke of Everingham. Those cold gray-green eyes bored into her as she approached. Lichen on stone. Frosted ice on a pond.
Would it hurt the man to smile?
“Your grace, may I present my niece, Lady Georgiana, as a desirable partner for this dance.” Aunt Agatha’s voice oozed with satisfaction.
The duke’s heavy-lidded eyes showed nothing, not pleasure nor anger nor any kind of human emotion at all. Except boredom. Such fun to be him.
There were any number of ladies here who would swoonwith delight to be presented to the duke—why did it have to be her? The family sacrifice on the altar of reconciliation and politeness.
He bowed slightly and offered his arm. “Lady Georgiana, may I have the pleasure of the next dance?” Said without the slightest hint of pleasure or enthusiasm. Or even interest.
George ached to refuse him, but she was committed to making this ball a success, and common politeness forced her to allow the duke to lead her out onto the dance floor with every appearance of willingness.
She didn’t smile at him, though. If he wanted to act as though she were a dreary duty, she wouldn’t bother to pretend His Frozen Grace was a desirable partner.
“Do you always get old ladies to kidnap dance partners for you, duke?” she said as he led her toward a set that was forming.
“Lady Salter offered,” he said smoothly, adding, “I expect she thought you needed help finding a suitable partner.”
“Ihada suitable partner. He engaged himself to dance with me several days ago.” How had he convinced Sir Matthew to give up this dance? Bribery? Intimidation? Or had Aunt Agatha done it?
The music started, they bowed and moved into the dance. “Most men I know find their own partners—” They separated to twirl briefly around with another partner. When they came back together, George continued. “Dukes are different I suppose—” She broke off to twirl with another partner. “Silver spoon and all that. I expect all your needs are provided by others.”
The gray eyes glinted as he took one of her hands in his and set the other at her waist. “Not all of them.”
At her first-ever ball, when she was still quite nervous of dancing in public and getting her steps mixed up, George had discovered that the right partner made an enormous difference. The revelation happened during a progressive dance, where a couple would perform a set figure of steps and then the lady would be twirled on to be received by thenext partner. She’d gone from having to concentrate hard, to dancing effortlessly and gracefully, not missing a beat. She’d thought she’d mastered the dance and was enjoying herself hugely—until she was passed on to her next partner, an earnest, clumsy young man, who took them both back to beginner status.
The duke was, she had to admit, an excellent dancer, though it was a mystery how he’d achieved that level of skill when he rarely attended balls. The way he guided her through the steps was both deft and masterful—and a little unsettling.
It wasn’t that he behaved in any inappropriate way; indeed he was perfectly cool, distant and conventional. It was just that whenever his hands touched her—and it was only in the various required movements of the dance, nothing untoward—she... shefeltit. The warmth, the strength of his hands—even though they were both wearing gloves.
Shivers ran through her, though she wasn’t at all cold.
To be twirled and turned and steered this way and that effortlessly and confidently by his big warm hands... She felt like a leaf caught up by an irresistible tide. She didn’t like it, the feeling of helplessness. But, she told herself, it was just a dance, a perfectly ordinary dance. She could stop, or step out of it any time she chose. And he was just a man, one she didn’t like very much.
His scent disturbed her too, a combination of clean pressed linen, soap and a faint hint of cologne—citrus and spice, something crisp and masculine. It took her instantly back to those moments when they’d stood, almost touching, in the darkness of the conservatory. It felt... too... too intimate.
It felt as though every eye in the ballroom was on them.
She couldn’t wait for the dance to be over.
“I suppose you’re used to it, all this attention,” she commented as they came together in a movement. It was polite, after all, to make conversation. Not that he was bothering.
His shoulder moved in the barest hint of an indifferent shrug.
“So disheartening,” she said, “seeing that after all theseyears of civilization, and for all our so-called sophistication, most people are still no better than the ancient Romans, gawking at a spectacle, hoping for blood—or scandal.”
A dark eyebrow rose. “Lions and Christians?” he said when they came together again.
“Yes.”
His eyes glinted. “And which would you class me as—lion or Christian?”
