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“I am rather ungainly.”

That was not exactly the truth. Really, Beatrice had always felt uncomfortable, with her short, plump figure pressed up against some lanky gentleman.

She might have known that things would be different with Stephen. He peered down at her, his eyes piercing, the half-smile on his lips sending another shiver down her spine, goosebumps breaking all over her skin. His fingertips—gloveless again!—kept finding her shoulders, the touch making her shudder pleasurably.

Still a dream?she wondered dazedly.

“Do you see how they are all looking at you?” he murmured.

She glanced around as best as she could, taking in the blur of faces, many of them directed her way. “They are probably shocked.”

“Do you insist on thinking that you are shocking, my dear? I think perhaps you have no idea of the effect you have on gentlemen.”

She flinched. “Are you mocking me? I’m a notorious spinster.”

“You intimidate them.”

“Or I disgust them.”

The dance slowed, just for a moment. Beatrice did not notice the man approaching them until he was at their side, effectively stopping them both in place.

Beatrice recognized the gentleman’s face but not his name. He seemed pleasant enough, with a round, plain-featured face and hungry eyes.

“Would you mind, Your Grace?” he asked, gesturing towards her.

It took Beatrice a moment to realize what he was asking.

He wants to cut in. He wants to dance with me.

She blinked, baffled, and glanced up at Stephen.

The smile still lingered on his lips, but it had turned hard, his eyes steely. The gentleman’s pleasant expression began to fade away, and he shifted nervously.

“I think not,” Stephen purred, the smile on his face not matching the look in his eyes. “The Duchess and I are just stepping out.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. I am sorry,” the man gabbled, backing away.

Seizing Beatrice’s arm, Stephen led her away from the dancefloor and into the crowd.

“Where are we going?” she whispered. “Why are we leaving?”

“Because,” he said, his voice almost strained, “if gentlemen keep looking at you the way they are now, I will not be responsible for my actions,Duchess.”

CHAPTER 17

“You’re mad,” Beatrice said, but Stephen could hear the laughter in her voice. He shot her a grin over his shoulder, towing her by her hand through the crowd.

“Mad, for sure.”

“And jealous,” she added. “I thought this was meant to bemybirthday treat.”

“AndIthought that your birthday was yesterday.”

She let out a hoot of laughter at that and then clapped a hand over her mouth as if to muffle the noise. It certainly wasn’t genteel to laugh loudly in a place like this.

Stephen grinned down at her, flustered and flushed as if he’d been drinking, even though they hadn’t had time to have so much as a sip of punch. He wanted her to laugh, to laughproperly,with her head thrown back and her mouth open, as if she didn’t care a jot what people thought of her.

He had seen disapproving looks thrown towards her scandalous dress, certainly, but many more ladies—and plenty of gentlemen—were looking at her admiringly. One quiet, mousy-looking girl sitting in a corner had watched Beatrice—bright, colorful, talkative Beatrice—with wide eyes and a dawning sense of realization.