Page 11 of Dukes All Night Long

“T hat is not a good idea, Your Grace.” Miss Pryce eyed his proffered arm, horrified.

“Why not? You’re the best dance partner for me.”

“I’ve been your only dance partner,” she informed. “And this is your first dance of the evening. Quite an important one.”

“I know.”

“Everyone will be watching,” she hissed.

“Excellent. We’ll be under the looking-glass together.” He especially savored the word “together.” Miss Pryce, however, was too busy assessing the environs to notice.

The Countess of Bradbury whisked by, a woman on a mission.

Though her stride was brisk, the woman’s falcon-like gaze absorbed the vignette of him with a comely redhead.

Gregory estimated in half an hour, matrons with marriageable daughters at the ball would know that he’d offered his arm to Miss Pryce.

Good manners required she accept his overture or dip a polite curtsey, make her excuses, and walk away.

Having stepped fully into the ballroom, the rules changed.

Or he’d bloody well make his own rules—the first being Miss Pryce must shed her half-world of unpaid servitude to her father.

She was a comely woman at a ball, and he, the man who wanted to dance with her.

What could be simpler than that?

Calculations ticked behind Miss Pryce’s generous brown eyes—his slightly wrinkled coat, the private balcony, and the pair of them emerging after a quarter of an hour gone.

They’d almost kissed. And she knew it. Nor was she unaffected.

Her life vein thumped dramatically on her neck and a flush painted her cheeks.

He was still waiting when the Jolly Meg’s third mate passed through fern-topped plinths.

“I say, Miss Pryce.” Jeremy brushed greenery off his shoulder. “I know that look in his eye. You’d do well to capitulate. Retreat is not in Hawkland’s vocabulary.”

“Mr. Gladstone.” She curtseyed, and freckled fingertips slid over Gregory’s sleeve. Her stare darted spiritedly up at Gregory before she went on. “It would appear you’ve caught us at a difficult moment.”

“The Terror of the Sea difficult?” Jeremy snorted and snagged champagne from a passing footman. “You have no idea.”

Miss Pryce’s cinnamon brows scrunched. To Gregory’s relief, Fleet Street was unaware of that moniker and the story behind it.

Her chin tilted a curious angle. “I was about to inform His Grace that there are more appropriate young women he should dance with. All of them with impeccable pedigrees.”

“What about your pedigree, Miss Pryce?” Gregory asked.

Slender in russet silk, she wore no adornment save a strip of black velvet on her neck. Lush auburn curls, caught up in the Grecian style, spilled from her head. Within them, gold strands shimmered, fodder for a treasure hunt should her hair come undone by his hand.

“I am twenty-seven, Your Grace.”

As if that was that. He quirked his mouth. Prim, proper, and pretty. If ever a woman needed to be kissed senseless, it was Miss Pryce. Gregory cocked his head at her.

“I wasn’t aware women came with an expiration date.”

“Believe me, we do.” Amused, she whisked her fan. “Just like bottled preserves sold at Fortnum & Mason.”

He laughed, unable to look away. From the day Miss Pryce told him to wear a shirt, her quips never ceased to delight him.

“Miss Pryce, are you trying not to dance with a duke?” Jeremy asked.

“She is.” Gregory answered for her. “Done her best to outmaneuver me.”

His instructress flicked her fan like a cat snapping its tail. “Whatever do you mean?”

“At present, there is no music, therefore, no dancing.” Eyes narrowing, he considered her.

“I’d say you made a split-second decision to accept my invitation, thereby humoring me, but once the musicians return, you’ll make your excuses and slip away, leaving me to the claws of unwed ladies who haven’t escaped to the garden’s cooler climes. ”

“Admit it, Miss Pryce. You’re outgunned.” Jeremy sighed dramatically and took in the grand assembly. “At least you’re not like these other skirts, vying for a piece of the Pirate Duke.”

“Gladstone…” he warned. “We’re not on the ship.”

“A piece of him, indeed.” Miss Pryce was gently miffed. “I suppose a good many women are drawn to…” Fingertips pinching white on her fan, she stalled “…well, to fierce fighting men.”

Her hand wrapped protectively over Gregory’s forearm.

She was an expert at soothing, restoring, and in general attending to others and their needs.

What about her needs? Who looked after her?

He touched the back of her fingers and studied the sea of gentlefolk, her father among them.

Didn’t the man know his daughter was a treasure?

Mr. Pryce was rocking back and forth on his toes in fervent conversation with a baron. Or was the man a viscount? Gregory had forgotten already.

Everyone wanted their pound of Hawkland flesh—especially the well-heeled. Last week, no less than twenty lords, with their lady wives, had called on him. Strangers, each of them, boldly dangling their daughters for marriage.

Three months ago, they would’ve run in fright.

Three months ago, he was climbing rigging with a knife between his teeth.

Across the ballroom, a door opened between gilt-trimmed mirrors. The master musician passed through, followed by perspiring men with violins in hand. They took their seats behind a screen of plants.

“If I want to survive…this?” Jeremy addressed Miss Pryce, while waving a hand toward the room at large. “What must men of my ilk know?”

She smiled graciously, warming to her role as instructress. One might believe she excelled at herding gruff men.

“Everything is nuanced. Even dancing.” Miss Pryce was animated, her gaze on him and Gladstone. “A quadrille, for example. Dance with as many partners as you please. There’s no meaning in it.”

“And the Scotch Reel?” Jeremy asked, hopeful.

Gregory grinned. Jeremy enjoyed a lively jig, though he’d danced mostly with harlots.

“It is the same. Young, old, matrons, and maidens, it’s quite friendly. Flirting, of course happens. But there’s no significant touching.”

She was adorably serious about the business of dancing, her plush lips immensely watchable as she spoke. Not pale pink like young ladies straight out of the schoolroom, rather they were reddish. Sinfully red.

Gregory dipped his head above her ear and smelled her rose-scented soap. “How does one dance when significant touching is desired?”

He was rewarded with a show of goosebumps on her nape and a whispered answer.

“You know very well, Your Grace.”

The waltz.

Gregory checked the musicians. Sheets of music were being shuffled. Guests trickled into the ballroom by twos and threes, their faces gleeful at spying the musicians. He girded himself. A dance was coming.

“Waltz once with a lady and flowers are expected.” Miss Pryce cleared her throat and added primly, “It is an unspoken rule.”

“So many rules, and so little time to break them,” he murmured.

Her chin up, she ignored his quip. With her back to the musicians, his animated instructress hadn’t noticed their return.

To Jeremy, “Dancing a waltz with a woman hints at courtship. Call on the lady, at least once.”

Her cinnamon brows rose on making her point. He wanted to trace a finger over one arch, then the other. To kiss them. To compare them to her curls rich in shades of red, auburn, and gold.

Giggling debutantes walked by, fanning themselves.

Gladstone eyed them warily. “What about a second waltz?”

“With the same woman? In the same evening?” Air hissed past her teeth. “That’s practically a declaration of marriage.”

“Not a declaration of love?” Gregory tucked his arm close to his body.

Her wrist nestled against his ribs. Miss Pryce angled her face to his. Brown eyes, flecked with amber, rounded prettily.

“A gentleman must tread carefully, Your Grace.” Between her lips a small space showed as if she might say more, except music reached her ears and his.

Violinists were strumming a prelude, and he witnessed her tender shock. She was caught. Their dance would happen. A waltz, as it were. He’d never been a nuanced man. He never had to be. His hunt for Miss Pryce, however, plumbed new depths.

Once he won her affections, he’d never let go.