Page 9 of Enchanting the Duke
Chrissy smiled weakly, exhausted by the attention.“How many more?”
“Three more sets before supper.After that, you may rest your feet.Or retire with a headache, if you must.But I do hope you’ll stay at least until the quartet leaves.”
Another partner presented himself, this one younger and flush with hope.He gripped her hand too tightly and whispered a string of compliments so flowery she worried they might stain her dress.He danced passably well, but every conversation was an uphill battle.He stammered and blushed and stared at the ceiling whenever she tried to meet his eye.
The cycle repeated, dance, bow, hand-off to the next in line.Chrissy felt like a prized foal at auction, trotted out for inspection by buyers with no intention of purchase.Each new suitor compared unfavorably to the duke.Their hands were clammy, their banter insipid, their stares either too timid or too bold.
Between dances, she glimpsed Nomansland again.He was leaning against a pillar, talking with Abingdon and a pair of officers, but his eyes sought her out at every possible moment.Once, when a partner spun her close to his quadrant of the room, he reached out and grazed her gloved hand as she passed—so swift and subtle it might have been an accident.But the current that passed between them was no accident at all.
By the time supper was announced, Chrissy was both starving and sickened by nerves.She moved through the buffet in a daze, unable to eat more than a bite or two.The crush of guests was overwhelming, and the noise seemed to bounce inside her skull with a physical force.
She found herself at a small table in the corner, flanked by two girls who were whispering furiously about the latest scandal.They greeted her with brittle politeness, then continued their conversation as if she were part of the furniture.
She could not help but look for Nomansland.He was nowhere to be seen.For a wild moment, she thought he had left, perhaps bored by her parade of failures or frustrated by the constraints of the evening.
“Looking for your duke?”one of the girls asked, her voice edged with envy.
Chrissy startled.“I—no, not at all.I was only?—”
“It’s all right to admit it,” said the other, her eyes narrowing with sly curiosity.“I would do the same if I were you.He’s quite the catch.And rather dangerous, if the stories are true.”
Chrissy flushed, not least because the stories probably were true.“He is… very kind.He’s a business partner of my sister’s husband.He’s not courting me.”
The girls exchanged a glance that said they didn’t believe it for a second.“If you say so,” said the first, turning her attention back to her plate.
After supper, the music resumed, and so did the dance.The crowd had thinned, the atmosphere now heady with wine and anticipation.Chrissy wondered why Nomansland didn’t take her away.Her absence wouldn’t be noticed, she was certain.
Her partners became more daring, one or two pressing closer than strictly necessary, their hands lingering at her waist or drawing her in for a whispered aside.She endured it with a patience she had never known she possessed, her mind drifting to the promise Nomansland had made—terrace, soon—and wondering if it had only been a tease, a fever dream conjured by the heat of his breath and the strength of his hold.
She didn’t see him again until the last dance was called.By then, her feet ached and her nerves were frayed to the edge of collapse.She was standing by a window, inhaling the chill night air, when she felt the warmth of a body beside her.
“Miss Westfall,” Nomansland said, and she turned to find him at her side, closer than decorum would allow.
“Your Grace,” she replied, her voice thin.
“I have come to claim the final dance.”He offered his hand, palm up, and she took it without hesitation.
The music was a waltz, the room quieted to an intimate hush.He drew her in, and this time, there was nothing tentative in his hold—no half-measures, no sense of audience or performance.They moved together as if they were the only people left in the world.
“You endured admirably,” he said, his lips nearly touching her ear.
“I survived.But only just.”She let her cheek graze the wool of his coat.
He chuckled, the sound low and private.“You’re stronger than you know.”
They moved in silence for a while, the only sound the muted shuffle of shoes and the fading strains of the quartet.She allowed herself to relax, to melt into his arms, and for the first time that night, she felt safe.
When the music faded, he didn’t immediately release her.He bowed, then lifted her hand to his lips.Through the thin layer of her glove, she felt the press of his mouth—deliberate, lingering, a promise sealed in heat.
“I must bid you goodnight, but I shall see you again soon, Miss Westfall.Very soon,” he said, his voice hoarse with something she couldn’t name.
His eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her outright, consequences be damned.Instead, he straightened, released her hand, and melted into the crowd—leaving her trembling, breathless, and certain of only one thing.
This Season promised to be the best moments of her life.
CHAPTER FOUR
Afew mornings after the ball, the sun through the lace curtains was an anemic London gold, pooling on the carpet like spilled tea.Chrissy curled on the settee in Grandmama Westfall’s drawing room, reading the first page of a novel for the third time, her thoughts persistently snagging on the memory of a blue-eyed duke.The house was quiet, most of the staff dispatched for errands, Grandmama herself absent at a charity committee meeting.Only a faint ticking from the mantel clock, and the crinkle of pages as Chrissy fidgeted, suggested the place hadn’t been embalmed.