Page 22 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)
Chapter
Twenty-Two
R osalind could assure herself, without any uncertain terms, that she did not like seeing Nathaniel dancing with anyone—most especially not with her companion, Lady Smithe. The woman, she was certain, did not like her. In fact, Rosalind was sure that Lady Smithe tolerated her at best and not very well at that. Yet seeing Nathaniel dancing and witnessing Lady Smithe's conceited smile whenever someone watched them made Rosalind's covetousness rise.
Did Lady Smithe want Nathaniel in the same way that Rosalind did? She could not blame her if that were the case. But if her ladyship intended to claim Nathaniel for herself, she would do so at her own peril. Rosalind was not the type of woman to give up on something she wanted without a fight, and she wanted Nathaniel. Desperately.
The dance came to an end, and Rosalind watched with morbid fascination as Nathaniel lifted Lady Smithe's hand and kissed the back of her glove. His laughter and smile made envy simmer hot in her veins. What was he about, being so familiar with her ladyship after all they had done together?
"Let me escort you back to your companion, Lady Rosalind," Lord Kelter said, pulling her from her interest.
"Thank you, my lord," she replied, regaining her composure as she returned to her many admirers who stood nearby Lady Smithe and the duke. Rosalind schooled her features, hoping her face did not betray the turmoil raging within her.
Was the duke trying to make her jealous? Was he attempting to convince himself that they could not be together and that he ought to be with another—Lady Smithe perchance? The thought made him a fool if he believed, even for a minute, that such a union would work. Lady Smithe, while undoubtedly lusting after the duke, would soon grow disillusioned with him when he did not fall at her feet with every whim. Her annoyance would grow, and then so would her derision and dislike. No, they would never work. But the duke and Rosalind—well, that was something she needed to convince him of before he gave Lady Smithe more hope than was fair.
"You dance most beautifully, Lady Rosalind. One would never believe that you have lived so long in the country without society," the earl remarked offhandedly.
She fought not to state that although from the country, she was far from uneducated or non-accomplished. "Thank you, my lord, that is very kind. But my sisters and I often practiced, so we are well versed in the current dances in town," she replied.
"I do not doubt it." Lord Kelter grinned mischievously and, just as the duke had with Lady Smithe, picked up her hand and kissed the back of her glove.
Rosalind smiled, but there were no butterflies, no hope or desire that coursed through her—merely a pleasant exchange between two people destined to remain friends. Lord Kelter deposited her back with her admirers, along with Nathaniel and Lady Smithe.
His lordship strode off with a spring in his step and the duke cleared his throat. His scowl toward the departing viscount clear to anyone who might be watching.
"You look very happy, Lady Rosalind," Lady Smithe observed, her face beaming after her dance with the duke and his evident pleasure in it.
"I am, my lady. Lord Kelter is a very nice man, and I would dance with him again if he asked."
"You are only permitted one dance per gentleman per night. There will be no raised brows when it comes to my ward." The way the duke accentuated the word my caught Rosalind's attention, and she raised her brow, uncertain—after his eager dance with Lady Smithe—that he should refer to anyone as his property.
"You can have no objections to Lady Rosalind dancing with Lord Kelter again. She is allowed two dances per evening." Lady Smithe studied the duke for a moment, and Rosalind wondered if she was curious about his dislike of the gentlemen courting her. "You do wish your ward to marry, do you not?"
Nathaniel fumbled to find his words before managing to reply, "Of course, Lady Smithe. I am merely concerned for her reputation."
Rosalind scoffed and bit her lip as she realized she had mocked the duke's words. In truth, he was being rather absurd and overprotective—especially when he could not hold her in his arms at this very moment and claim her as his, nor would he. He had no right to be overbearing when it came to the men he was so determined should marry her.
"Lady Rosalind, remember the rules of courtship. A gentleman may dance with you twice, but no more. You must never be alone and unchaperoned at any time. You must not use our given names when speaking to one another. A lady listens more than she speaks. "
Rosalind met Nathaniel's gaze as Lady Smithe recited some of the rules, leaving many others unsaid. Already, she had been using the duke's given name, and they had been alone together in both the carriage and the house. The memory of what had transpired in the dining room the previous day haunted her, and she longed for the same intimacy again—even if he was being unagreeable and surly this evening.
"I understand perfectly and shall keep everything you said in mind," she replied.
Lady Smithe smiled and, spotting another acquaintance, left Rosalind alone with Nathaniel.
Rosalind stepped close to him, ensuring their conversation remained private. "Whatever shall Lady Smithe say if she knew we were using our given names in private? I'm certain she would suffer an apoplexy if she heard what else we have done."
"Are you threatening me?" Nathaniel's cold tone startled her, and her gaze flew to his, expecting a response to her jest but finding him staring with cold, hard eyes devoid of mirth.
"No, of course not. Why would you say such a thing or think it?" His words sent a chill through her, and all enjoyment for the night vanished at his disapproval. She had never been vindictive, and now pain wedged in her chest that he would think her so. He said nothing more, merely turned his attention to the dancers before them, remaining quiet and aloof.
Rosalind placed space between them, debating her next move. Part of her wanted to rail at him for daring to be so rude. How could he touch her and kiss her as he had, only to chastise her as if she were a child incapable of distinguishing right from wrong? She knew what they were doing was wrong—they were unmarried, and she was his ward. She was a maid, and he was a rake. But she was not a silly child to be spoken to so disrespectfully, especially when he was so eager to engage in all those wicked acts a gentleman ought not to do when unsupervised.
"I'm waiting for an apology, Your Grace. Whenever you're ready," she said, watching him, hoping he would feel a twinge of unease.
A muscle worked in his jaw, yet stubbornly he offered no apology. "You should take a turn about the room and dance with other gentlemen before the night is over. You are wasting your time here with me."
Perhaps that was true. Was she wasting her time and hopes by pinning them on the wrong man—one who clearly cared more for society's opinion far more than his own heart? A man does not touch a woman and speak such sweet words without having his own heart stirred. He was a fool, but she would not allow herself to be duped into falling into his arms only to be treated like the muck under his boots when they were in public.
"Yes, well, perhaps I should take a turn. There are other gentlemen present this evening who are far more agreeable than you." She paused and glanced over her shoulder. "You may leave. Lady Smithe will see me home safely when the ball is over. There is no need for my guardian to lord it over everyone and scare them away. Goodnight, Your Grace."
Rosalind turned up her nose and went in search of her admirers and the few female friends she had made during her coming-out ball. Her eyes stung, and she swallowed hard. She would not cry over a man. How dare she be so emotional simply because he was the first to make her feel anything beyond boredom?
She needed to give other gentlemen the opportunity to gain her interest—surely there would be more than one man on this fabulous green earth to make her heart race and her stomach flutter. It was statistically impossible for the duke to be the only one.
Impossible.