Page 15 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)
Chapter
Fifteen
" I t is nothing," he countered, not wishing to inflate the matter further than it merited. Yet his gentle reply stirred Rosalind into a state of all sixes and sevens, leaving her even more flustered than she had been in his presence before. His kindness seemed limitless—a cascade of sweet gestures and soft words that, in any lady, would awaken feelings and leave the heart tender. And hers, without doubt, had been touched. She found herself liking the duke far more than she ever imagined she could.
"But it is, Your Grace. I must confess that this evening, when I was forced to wear this gown, I thought my Season was over. Who would wish to dance or be courted when one appears unable to meet one of the ton’s most adamant rules—that a debutante must radiate the very highest standards of fashion at every event? I failed the moment I stepped into society for the first time. Yet knowing that you have approved my gowns to be made in the colors that truly suit my complexion, I feel that no one has ever done anything so kind for me in all my life."
"Really?" Nathaniel met her eyes, a cynical lift to one of his brows eliciting a laugh from her—a soft, uncertain sound that betrayed her inner conflict.
"Truly. And the other day beneath the willow tree—I will not soon forget that kindness either."
At her words, the duke stiffened, as though the memory of their shared indiscretion weighed heavily upon him. Rosalind longed to know whether that kiss, so unexpected and yet so stirring, had been merely a fleeting mistake or the spark of something she dared to hope might blossom into more.
"Why have you been avoiding me these past days? I thought we were friends," she pressed, studying the shifting emotions that flitted across his face before he once again assumed the composed mask of the duke of Ravensmere.
"I thought it best after our indiscretion—a grave error on my behalf, for which I again apologize and promise never to repeat. I hope you have not been harmed by my actions, Lady Rosalind."
"Lady Rosalind?" she teased, a playful lilt in her tone. "So I am no longer merely Rosalind?"
"We are not in private," he replied coolly, though his eyes betrayed a lingering conflict as they briefly drifted to her lips.
A mischievous grin lit her features. "Then it is a pity we are not alone, for I would be tempted to see whether that indiscretion was an error or a pleasure we might dare to repeat."
He swallowed hard and glanced away, as if searching for escape in the shadows beyond her shoulder. "We must not repeat our actions. They were foolish and irresponsible—though I bear no blame upon you. I take full responsibility."
A sigh escaped her as she quietly admitted that she had secretly hoped for a chance encounter in a quiet corner of the house—an opportunity to coax him into another stolen moment. She had missed him terribly, nearly driven to distraction by the absence of his daily presence, his voice, the sight of him striding through the halls in all his tall, beautiful majesty. Even his strong backside, seen only in passing, had haunted her thoughts.
"It is not something we should ever repeat. You should not speak in such a manner, and I should chastise you for it," he added, his tone growing severe.
But Rosalind cared little for his reprimand. She believed their initial friendship might yet evolve into something far more meaningful. Was it too foolish to hope? Perhaps she should heed Lady Smithe’s advice and focus solely on the Season, rather than pinning her heart on any gentleman who might prove fickle. After all, Lord Felton seemed interested, and she ought to be dancing with him rather than squandering precious moments with her guardian.
"Why ask me to dance if you harbor no interest in me?" she retorted sharply. "I could be dancing with my future husband this very moment, while you ruin it."
The duke—infuriatingly unmuddled—remained calm. "I wished to dance with you, for you are my ward. It would be wrong if I did not share this dance at least once tonight. I needed a moment to explain about your gowns, so that there is no misunderstanding going forward."
Rosalind felt no misunderstanding was needed. The duke had made his position perfectly clear. Yet she could not stifle a flicker of disappointment that perhaps he had once harbored a desire to court her. Since that fateful kiss, she realized in all her three-and-twenty years no other man had ever stirred her as he had.
"Well, you have done so, Your Grace," she replied, her tone edged with both gratitude and resignation. "I think it best that we conclude our dance after this first—there are other gentlemen eager to win my heart and my dowry, and I do not wish to disappoint them."
The duke's lips pursed into a displeased line as his hold on her tightened. In that moment, her body melted against his, every fiber of her being craving his touch, yearning for the feel of his presence. Was she being wanton? When had such desires awakened within her? She had never before acted so impulsively.
"You have not disappointed anyone, Rosalind." His voice was low, strained with conflicting emotions.
"Now, Your Grace—remember, it is Lady Rosalind—we must maintain appearances. You are, after all, my guardian. I would not wish for scandalous rumors to spread about us."
"There is nothing improper about having my ward under my roof with a companion of good repute—a widow of the ton , no less. I would challenge anyone who dares cast aspersions upon us."
Rosalind fell into silence, as once again the duke erected a wall between them, a barrier that spoke of regret and a desire to keep the memory of their kiss confined to the past. Perhaps, by kissing him, she had irrevocably altered their friendship. A shame if that was the truth of it.
The dance eventually ended, and he led her back toward where Lady Smithe stood, a handsome gentleman at her side who smiled at Rosalind as she approached.
"Ravensmere, will you do me the honor of introducing me?" The man grinned, his eyes bright with teasing and Rosalind liked him immediately.
The duke nodded, though a tightness marred his expression—an indication that he resented having to perform such a courtesy. Perhaps he longed nothing more than to be rid of her presence until he was forced to attend to her younger sister, Evangeline, the next Season.
"Of course. This is Lady Rosalind, the late Duke Ravensmere’s eldest daughter. And this is the Marquess of Issacs," he announced.
"Very nice to meet you, Lady Rosalind," he said, bowing.
Rosalind curtsied in return. “A pleasure, Lord Issacs.”
Before she could rise, the marquess clasped her hand and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her gloved fingers. "The pleasure is all mine." He paused, glancing between her and the duke, who hovered too near for private conversation. "Would you care to dance? A new set is about to begin."
"That would be very kind, my lord. I would like that very much." As she accepted, Rosalind cast a lingering glance at the duke, her chin rising in defiance as she stepped away from him and the ever-present Lady Smithe—a woman who seemed content to remain with the duke for the evening.
Perhaps that was why the duke had avoided her these past days. He had once claimed a long-standing friendship with Lady Smithe. Were they lovers? Had something secret been unfolding beneath this very roof while Rosalind had been blinded by the intensity of her own feelings?
"This is your first Season, I hear? How are you finding London?" the marquess asked, drawing her into his arms for their first dance.
"Very well. I adore London, and this evening has been the most exhilarating of my life so far. I look forward to many more balls, dinners, and all the delights the Season promises."
"If you would be so kind as to join me on an outing tomorrow—just a short jaunt around Hyde Park, with space in my carriage for your maid—I might make this Season even more entertaining," he offered.
The prospect of visiting Hyde Park with such a handsome admirer thrilled her. "That would be lovely, my lord. I shall ask the duke, though I suspect he will have no objections."
"Indeed. His invitation tonight suggests he believes I would be a suitable match for you."
The marquess’s words drew a blush to her cheeks. "I do not know what you mean, my lord," she replied softly.
He laughed—a deep, throaty sound that made her heart flutter. "Oh, but I think you do."