Page 8 of Enchanting the Duke

They moved as one, faster than seemed possible, and she realized suddenly that she was flying—not stumbling, not faltering, but gliding with a grace that belonged to him but was now, briefly, hers.She risked a look at the crowd and saw faces blurring past, all attention fixed on them.

He leaned in, his voice barely audible over the music.“Do you know what I think about, when I hold you like this?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“I think about how much I want to ruin you for all other men.I want you to remember with every step that it was my hands that taught you.”

The words hit her like a shot of whisky—scandalous and intoxicating.“That’s improper.”

He laughed deep in his chest.“Everything about me is improper, darling.”

She shivered, but not from cold.His thumb moved in slow, deliberate circles at her waist, an echo of the motions he’d made at dinner when he toyed with his glass.He was teaching her the dance, but also something else—something raw and exhilarating.

“After this,” he said, “I will take you to the terrace.I will kiss you until you forget your own name.And we’ll discuss those other items of interest.”

“People will see,” she protested, even as her pulse beat a frantic tattoo.

“They will see a duke walking with a beautiful girl.They will not see the things I want to do to you.”

The music crested, and he guided her into a last turn, their bodies pressed close.For an instant, there was nothing but the wild hammering of her heart, his eyes locked on hers, the world reduced to a trembling line between them.

Then it was over.The music stopped.The spell broke.

There was applause, loud and sustained, but Chrissy could barely hear it.She was dizzy and breathless, still clinging to his hand.He led her off the floor, but didn’t release her—would not, it seemed, until she signaled the end of the illusion.

Dinah met them with a look of smug triumph.“See?I told you.Not a single misstep.”

Nomansland bowed over Chrissy’s hand, his lips nearly brushing the inside of her wrist.“She was perfection.”

Chrissy’s cheeks were burning, but she managed a passable curtsy.“Thank you, Your Grace.For not letting me fall.”

He straightened, warm blue eyes flicking up to meet hers.“I will never let you fall,” he said, and Chrissy felt the promise of it settle in her chest like a stone.

She barely remembered the next several minutes—the blur of congratulations, the string of suitors angling for her hand in the next dance, the endless march of faces and names.She was still in the waltz, still reeling from the feel of Nomansland’s breath at her ear and the knowledge of what he’d whispered.

When she finally looked for him, he was across the room, speaking with Dinah and a group of gentlemen.He caught her gaze and held it, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

He mouthed, “Terrace.Soon.”

The thought sent a tremor down her spine.She wondered how many more dances she’d have to endure before she could slip away and let him keep his promise.

She didn’t know how she would survive until then.

“Miss Westfall, the next is mine,” said Viscount Something-or-Other.Chrissy couldn’t be sure she’d heard his name when Dinah had introduced them earlier.

“Lovely.”She followed him toward the quartet where the sets were being formed.

The viscount was an indifferent dancer but an enthusiastic talker, guiding Chrissy through a quadrille while regaling her with gossip about the guests.She did her best to pay attention, nodding where required, but her eyes flicked constantly toward the perimeter of the room, searching for a flash of blue coat or a familiar angular jaw.Nomansland had vanished, replaced by a throng of admirers and the occasional chaperone, but she could feel his presence—like a storm cloud promising thunder, somewhere just out of sight.

The viscount’s hands were damp, and his attempts at witticisms grew more frantic as the set wore on.Chrissy, still half-dreaming of the waltz, found herself longing for the firmness of Nomansland’s arm, the certainty of his step.When the dance ended, she curtsied and thanked her partner, who somehow looked both disappointed and relieved.

The next young man to claim her hand was taller and more somber, with the pallor of a man who rarely saw daylight and the conversational skill of a banker.He trod on her toes twice, apologized, then did it again.Between missteps, he recounted in excruciating detail the lineage of every guest present, pausing only to wipe his brow with a handkerchief.

Chrissy’s mind wandered.She imagined Nomansland in the card room, dealing out aces and dispatching his rivals with the same lethal calm he applied to everything else.She wondered if he was thinking of her, if he regretted surrendering her to this parade of mediocrity.

At the end of the dance, as her partner escorted her back to Dinah, she glimpsed the duke by the refreshment table, glass in hand.He was watching her—no, watching the men who orbited her, his gaze as sharp as the cut of his coat.When their eyes met, he didn’t look away.He simply lifted his glass in a silent toast, and the gesture sent a flare of heat through Chrissy’s chest.

“You’re the sensation of the evening,” Dinah said, linking arms and steering her toward a new group of gentlemen.“Lady Carroway is apoplectic.She expected her own daughter to dominate, but I daresay you’ve eclipsed every eligible girl in London.”