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She looped her arm through both his and Chrissy’s and steered them toward the center of the room. “It’s time to start the dancing.”

Chrissy’s stomach twisted in a knot, her pulse leaping as she realized there would be no reprieve, no pause, no opportunity to gather herself.

She felt the burn of every pair of eyes in the room, some sizing her up as a rival, others as a curiosity, a few as an opportunity.

The string quartet shifted in their seats and raised their instruments.

Guests moved aside, clearing a space for dancing. Nomansland took his place, turning to her with a courtesy so practiced it bordered on satire. “Shall we?” he murmured, and she placed her hand—gloved, trembling, and impossibly small—against the expanse of his palm.

Her feet were lead, her heart, vapor, as they waited for the music to begin.

She glanced at Dinah, who beamed from the edge of the crowd like a mother sending her firstborn off to sea.

For a moment, Chrissy wished Grandmama had come, but she felt too out of place amongst society matrons, she’d said.

“It will be over before you know it,” Nomansland said, his voice pitched for her alone.

“I may faint before the end.”

He squeezed her hand, the pressure gentle but grounding. “You will do nothing of the sort. If you stumble, I will catch you.”

The music started, the first strains of a waltz so sweet and lilting it seemed to drag her forward by the breastbone.

Nomansland stepped into the lead, guiding her hand to his shoulder and placing his own at the small of her back.

She felt the heat of him through layers of silk and stays, the quiet power in his arm as he drew her in.

“I’ve never danced a proper waltz, except with the tutor,” she confessed, panic threading her voice.

“You need only follow. I’ll do the rest.”

And then they were moving, his steps sure and measured, hers tentative but quickly swept into the current of his rhythm.

The world narrowed to the click of his shoes against the floor, the sweep of her skirts, the impossible nearness of his face.

He looked at her, never breaking eye contact, as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

She missed the first turn and stumbled. He caught her, his arm tightening, his breath a promise at her ear. “Trust me.”

She did, somehow. She let her weight shift into his lead, let herself be spun and swept in a pattern she could not remember learning. The music bloomed around them, but it was only a backdrop to the dialogue unfolding in every glance and subtle touch.

“You are dazzling them,” Nomansland said quietly, as they spun past a knot of onlookers.

“I think they’re watching you.”

He grinned, his teeth white and wolfish. “Let them. I only want you to watch me.”

A flush crept up her neck, as if he’d lit a fire under her skin. His hand on her waist was possessive, anchoring. Every movement telegraphed a message, none of it appropriate for public consumption.

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.”

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.