Page 12 of Dukes All Night Long

S ilk slippers showed under a flurry of hems as men and women took to the dance floor. Susan checked the refreshment table. Her father lifted his chin, jerking it slightly. She was summoned. Best she snipped her ties with the duke.

She started to go, but a large hand pinned her wrist. A firm, informative grip. When she looked up, indigo eyes lit with humor.

“Leaving already?” the duke asked. “Remember. I have a cellar stocked with excellent ale.”

“How could I forget, Your Grace.”

A bleached-white scar above his eye was noticeable on sun-bronzed skin.

Though he wore expensive silk, no one could mistake him for a nobleman born and bred.

Gregory, the Eighth Duke of Hawkland, brought to mind a marauder of old, a man who stole the title from the Seventh Duke of Hawkland.

Of course, he inherited the dukedom, but his fierce visage spoke volumes.

This is what happens when barbarians slip through the gates.

She’d heard he’d gone barefoot and shirtless on his ship a mere two or three months ago. Roughshod manners would slough off…eventually. But, duke or not, this man inspired a rebellious streak in her. She eyed him, defiant.

“Perhaps you should run away to your cellar. I might join you. I could use a pint.”

White teeth gleamed in what could be a smile. “Thirsty, Miss Pryce?”

“As it happens, yes. I need ale strong enough to wash down the taste of stubborn male.”

He laughed heartily. “Now who’s the stubborn one? You agreed to dance with me.” One eyebrow cocked up. “Going back on your promise?”

“I didn’t promise. I was coerced.”

“Never said I played fair.” How pleasantly he said that!

She checked her father. He was scowling by the refreshment table.

A scolding would come. She bristled. The man treated her like a servant.

Whatever suited his whim. Truly, she was stuck between two forces.

Men and their demands. If she went to her father now, he would firmly state she ought to dance with the duke.

She could almost hear his admonishment— Make him comfortable for his first turn about the room.

Then, fade into the woodwork. A befitting act for the daughter of a government official.

Resentment niggled her.

To the duke, she was brisk. “Very well. One dance, Your Grace. Obviously, the rules of courting need not apply.”

He led the way, grinning. “You are the soul of cheer, Miss Pryce.” When they breeched the throng of dancers, he faced her, lifting their joined hands. “And I’ll do as I please. For courting and whatnot.”

She inhaled sharp and fast when his other hand slid above her waist. Her breasts ached. Their eyes locked and they took their first steps. Why torment her when there were so many more appropriate ladies in attendance? Was this all because he resented the pressure to dance?

At least his hand was correctly placed. Her gaze dipped to it.

“I suppose this is one of the few times you’ve followed the rules.”

Some men were known to have wandering hands during a waltz. The duke, however, was the epitome of a gentleman.

“One must abide by the rules to know when to break them.”

She tipped her face to his, a retort dying.

Ruthless attraction burned.

The duke’s grin faded. His pupils expanded, a glossy black, edging the indigo to a thin ring of color.

Brash, seafaring man that he was, this connection overwhelmed him.

His mouth etched a hard line as though he resented Society’s restraint.

She did, too. Every nerve under her skin spangled like fireworks.

Waltzing, she decided, was a form of torture, and ballrooms were the devil’s playground.

“We should just…dance,” she whispered.

Her hem lifted and swayed, a cooling effect. She willed the shock to pass, counting her steps. Dancing was intimate. Being in his arms. Tonight, however, was nothing like their first week with the dance master. Heat flared differently.

Susan stared past his shoulder, a tacit agreement settling in. No words, lest she blurt something absurd. Her lashes hung low. A glorious prickle tripped down her back to her thighs.

She bit her lip. One dance, and her duty was done.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

The room softened to a dream-like blur. She shifted her attention, memorizing his granite-hard features. Concern slanted lines across his forehead.

“I am.” She glanced past his rock of a shoulder. “You’re bearing up well. I should remember that you were torn from a life you enjoyed and have been dropped into all of this.” She searched his jaw clean from a close shave. “I know you didn’t want this.”

His snorted softly. “Your father told you that?”

She nodded. Scandal had ripped through Whitehall when news spread that one Mr. Gregory Dalton refused the dukedom.

His rejection shocked all. Yet, within a week, he’d reconsidered.

Quite a secret, his about-face. Her father’s chest had puffed with pride when he’d been chosen to guide the privateer in this unusual transition.

Her father had warned her—they must tread with care.

The Crown believed they had a new hero on their hands.

A brash privateer-turned-duke. The stuff of legends.

Ideal for stoking public interest…and selling consols to pay the war debt.

Her feet were light as they swept around the ballroom.

She wondered, why had he changed his mind and accepted the dukedom?

It was well known the late Duke of Hawkland was estranged from his younger brother, the new duke’s late father.

Gossip pages wrote that years ago, both men had vied for the same woman.

When the Seventh Duke of Hawkland lost the lady to his younger brother, the duke cruelly sought to destroy his brother and his new wife.

A man scorned, the late duke was unrelenting.

She’d heard he’d made his brother’s family nearly destitute.

What a price the young innocent Gregory Dalton unwittingly paid.

From that turmoil, a nearly impoverished fifteen-year-old boy had run away.

Looking into gem-hard indigo eyes, she knew. For this man, familial strife ran deep.

“I prefer the freedom of open water, but this is now my life. And you, Miss Pryce, have made it better.” He was sincere.

“Thank you.”

His benevolence was akin to a soft spring rain. She blossomed under it as they spun a full rotation around the ballroom. She might never know his reasons for accepting the dukedom. At this point, she didn’t care. Violin music was lovely and eloquent. And she was in his arms, dancing.

“With your father’s position at Whitehall, this is your life, is it not? The balls, the routs, a steady stream of social engagements.”

“Not really. I usually attend small dinners and luncheons with people twice my age.”

“Sounds boring.”

Her chin dipped. “Your Grace,” she chided, trying not to laugh. “It is a privilege when I can be in the company of esteemed persons.”

“Which is code for dull as ditchwater.”

This time she did laugh. “Someone had to step in and help my father. My mother died when I was sixteen. With my two sisters already married, household burdens fell on me.”

“The loss of a parent at a young age is a terrible tragedy.” His baritone had a calming effect.

“You would understand. The loss of your father at fifteen must’ve been…horrid.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Though in a roomful of people, they were intimate. Faces close. Eyes locked. Her heart kicked faster.

“But you never married.” His head cocked, curious. “Why not?”

He was ignoring the conversational thread she’d tossed out about his youth. Perhaps it was for the best. Her spinsterhood was a topic easily dissected.

“No. I didn’t. It was a matter of poor planning and unfortunate circumstances.

My sisters were busy with very young children.

And I spent my first two seasons in the Lake District, in a small village.

Crown business with a graphite mine, of course.

My father was terribly ill during what should’ve been my third season.

” She was rueful. The demands of her father’s post had ruled her life.

“My fourth season was spent on packets going back and forth from Liverpool to London. The same with what should’ve been my fifth season. And after that…well…”

The duke spun them gracefully and she decided not Whitehall, or her father, nor duty of any kind would rule her, if only for this hour. Her chin high, she let her body drift infinitesimally closer.

The duke’s brows shot up.

She spoke low, catching a hint of nutmeg on his skin. “Do you know how I survived boring state dinners?”

“How?”

“By playing a game inside my head.”

His mouth curved a lovely smile. “Miss Pryce, you are one pleasant surprise after another.”

“It kept me sane.” She dropped her voice. “I confess, I imagined the guests as animals.”

Joy erased his harshness. His Grace was genuinely enchanted. Encouraged, she went on.

“I would listen to them, look at their features, and try to figure out which animal they might be.” She nudged her chin at the refreshment table. “Do you see Lord Hamlin? The man talking to my father? I fancy him as a mongoose.”

The duke peered in the direction of the punch bowl. “A mongoose? I don’t see it.”

“Squint and you will. Short legs, slender body, dark close-set eyes. Oh, and his nose twitches.”

The duke barked a quick laugh. “He does have a twitchy nose.”

“Look near Lord Hamlin. Do you see the handsome lady and three young women with her? They all share the same carrot-and-gold colored hair.”

“I do.”

Lady Bradbury was surrounded by her daughters, all close in age and all fanning themselves while sipping punch.

“That is Lady Bradbury and her three goldfish.”

“What?” Laughter rumbled from his chest.

“I called them the Bradbury Goldfish because of their particular shade of hair, and I once sat beside Lady Bradbury at a Whitehall luncheon. She went on and on about the family cat eating her goldfish, which she’d named after her daughters.”

“Lady Bradbury is fond of costly pets.” He cracked a smile. “She cornered me earlier and told me new goldfish arrived from China. Delivered to her home last week.”

They spun around the edge of the ballroom, avoiding the mass. Dancing was becoming easier, the more they talked.

She nibbled her lip. “I hope you don’t think me unkind.”

“Not at all.” Knowing softened his visage. For a man of uncommon size, he could be uncommonly gentle. “You haven’t had much time for yourself, have you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

She blinked fast. His thumb was caressing her rib. She could feel it through her stays, soft and seeking. An unexpected connection, him seeing her and touching her just so.

His eyes narrowed with assessment. “You navigated the loss of your mother. A terrible thing for a young woman. I wonder if you did that alone.”

Her lashes curtained her eyes. His smoky baritone was the sound she followed.

“I…managed.”

“Your father’s ambitions must have kept him busy. Perhaps selfishly so. He might’ve missed the fact that his daughter has matured to an entrancing woman.” She looked up, drawn to the kindness in his voice. “A woman who needs to live her own life.”

An awkward lump landed in her throat. She tried to swallow it. How unusual and soul-baring a conversation to have with a man she’d known for one month.

What if they had more time together? She shook her head as though she ought to rid herself of that thought.

“You remind me of a seal,” he said.

She startled. “What?”

Her outburst caught the attention of people gliding by.

“Did you call me a seal?” Her shock evaporating, she tried to tamp down her amusement and failed.

Laughter bubbled up from her chest. They twirled elegantly, her skirts swishing around them both.

“I’m playing your game.” A gorgeous perilous light sparked in his eyes. It was like sunlight glinting off a dagger. Though her feet moved with his, all sense of time and place vanished. The world could be just the two of them.

“You’re supposed to choose someone else. Not me.” Another twirl and she couldn’t resist. “But…a seal? They’re such ungainly creatures.”

“Not when they’re in their element.” The duke navigated them around a young lord who struggled in guiding his dance partner.

She was on the verge of giggling. “You need lessons in flirtation, Your Grace.”

“I manage well enough.”

His confidence was breathtaking. Even without the ducal title, Mr. Gregory Dalton would command feminine attention in whatever room he entered. He was a force of nature. A man’s man. Dancing with him, she was as pliant as clay in his arms.

“You, Miss Pryce, are adaptable, though I sense you have a talent for avoiding stormy waters.”

His keen attention was something to behold. Again, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being seen. Deeply.

“It’s not avoidance, Your Grace. I keep the peace.”

She was trying to hold her own with a man a mere three years older than her, yet centuries ahead in experience. This was like swimming far out in the ocean when one usually swam in a shallow pond. There was safety in knowing one’s toes could touch firm ground.

“Seals do the same,” he said conversationally. “Adapt that is, when a choppy wave comes, they dive elegantly under it, allowing the undertow to draw them into calmer waters.”

Well, at least he thought her elegant.

They twirled, slowly, slowly until her slippered feet could be afloat.

He was getting very good at this. Drenched in candlelight, the Pirate Duke was chivalry and tenderness, his attention fastened on her as if no other woman existed.

Lips parting, she tried to get her bearings.

But the music stopped. His hand slid whisper-soft over her ribs, releasing her.

Her one hand stayed in his warm, calloused grip.

Dancers milled about, laughing, talking. The Duke of Hawkland’s potent gaze lasted seconds, a minute, a lifetime. Far from polite, she couldn’t tear herself away. She was drawn to him, disoriented yet lingering in his orbit. He was…irresistible.

“Have you ever truly looked into a seal’s eyes, Miss Pryce?”

She giggled like a debutante. At least he wasn’t comparing her to an eel.

“No, Your Grace. I can’t say that I have.”

He smiled, faint lines fanning his temple. “They have beautiful, soulful eyes. Like yours.”

His wind-grained baritone reached a profound place inside her. A confident man, the Duke of Hawkland bent low and kissed the back of her hand. A barely there kiss, his mouth brushed her skin, and he let her go.

“Miss Pryce,” he murmured.

Then, he walked away.