Page 16 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

J on scarcely saw Tory over the next few days. Even on the two nights when he’d accompanied the ladies to a soiree and a dinner, he’d arranged to meet them there, so he could avoid those painful moments in the intimate confines of the carriage. Once there, he’d chosen to speak with his friends—if they were there—or old friends he hadn’t seen since before his time in France. Anything to stay away from her.

But that was its own special hell. He had to watch as other men made her laugh or touched her arm or whispered in her ear. Although none made her blush, even Heathbrook with his teasing remarks or Scovell with his quiet, earnest ones; one day someone would. Jon didn’t know how he’d bear that.

Tonight he’d promised to squire the ladies to the first ball Tory was to attend—the one at Lady Sinclair’s—and he was dreading it. For the first time, he’d have to watch her dance with other gentlemen.

Unless no one asked her to dance. Neither Heathbrook nor Scovell could attend, since the former was at his estate and the latter with his recruits in Portsmouth for the naval review before the Allied Sovereigns. And Tory seemed convinced her background would preclude her gaining any other partners.

As his phaeton hurtled toward Lady Sinclair’s, he told himself she was worrying for nothing. Tory was sure to be dressed in a flattering gown if his mother and sister had anything to say about it, and anyway, she’d look lovely wearing sackcloth and ashes, so the gentlemen would surely line up to dance with her for her beauty alone. Within ten minutes of speaking to her, they would find her an interesting conversationalist, and her experience as a governess would ensure she knew all the complicated protocols for a ball.

So he’d be proved right, and she’d be proved wrong about her suitability as a wife. Which meant he must brace himself for an evening of watching her with other men. He ought to just dance with other ladies, if only to take his mind off her, but he had no stomach for it. He told himself it was because he wasn’t ready to think about marriage, but that was a lie. He had all the stomach in the world for marriage if it meant having Tory.

He groaned. Unwittingly, Morris had chosen the perfect penance for him—asking him to find a husband for the beauty he couldn’t in good conscience bed or marry himself.

Unfortunately, the moment he walked into the Sinclairs’ London townhouse, his torture began.

“There you are, Jon!” Chloe tugged Tory along with her as she approached to greet him. “We thought you might try to get out of it, and we were so looking forward to introducing you to more of our friends. Weren’t we, Tory?”

“Of course,” she said in a neutral tone, her gaze steady and sure on him.

He smiled at them both. “Where’s Mother?”

“Oh, she’s off talking to Diana somewhere,” Chloe said. “We wanted to wait for you and see if your attire came up to snuff.”

“And does it?” he asked.

Chloe looked him over. “It will do,” Chloe said archly.

“Pay her no mind, Your Grace,” Tory said. “You look splendid.”

“Thank you, Miss Morris. And both of you ladies outshine the stars.”

Chloe lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a rather clichéd compliment. Surely you can do better than that. I mean, just look at Tory’s gown. I picked it out myself. What do you notice?”

“It’s very... pink.” Like her cheeks and lips and blushes. The sleeves were short, exposing a pair of beautiful arms, and the bodice was low enough to expose the creamy tops of two lovely breasts. How would he look at anyone but her? Especially when the skirt was a clingy silk, settling around her legs so he fancied he could see the shape of them. God help him.

“You are such a man ,” Chloe said. “You don’t know how to pay a lady a proper compliment.”

He didn’t think they’d appreciate him saying what exactly he was appreciating. “And I suppose you think Heathbrook does?” he drawled.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Chloe pulled up her long gloves. “It’s just a pity he couldn’t be here tonight.”

“I’m sure neither of you will have trouble finding partners,” Jon said dryly.

“Well, then, let’s go see if that’s true,” Chloe said. “Come, Jon, escort us, please.”

Laughing at her impudence, he let each lady take an arm so he could walk into the ballroom looking like some battered old gentleman at the theater with a pair of gorgeous actresses hanging off him.

It became obvious fairly early that Chloe would have a wealth of partners. She was, after all, the daughter of a previous Duke of Falconridge and the sister of the present one. Meanwhile, Tory . . . charming, beautiful Tory . . . had half the married gentlemen in the room asking her to dance. She accepted each request—she could hardly do otherwise—and each time shot him an I told you so look.

After he’d watched five such men partner her, his mother came up beside him. “I was afraid this would happen.”

“What?” he asked, sipping from his third glass of champagne. It was either drink or go mad watching Tory dance with men who couldn’t marry her but who ogled her just the same as their wives entertained themselves elsewhere. Meanwhile, Tory’s I told you so look grew more pointed.

His mother sniffed. “I overheard some gentlemen talking about Victoria in a less than proper way. Someone apparently remembered her as Chloe’s governess and has told several of the eligible bachelors. Now they think it beneath them to dance with a ‘servant, ’ and are vowing they won’t be fooled by some ‘jumped-up adventuress. ’ ” She snorted. “Women aren’t the only ones who gossip, by any means—men can be worse than women, I swear.”

His temper surged to think of Tory’s good name being besmirched by a lot of young arses bloated with their own consequence. They had no idea of the jewel they were tossing aside.

“I have let it slip to some of the mothers that Tory is Chloe’s friend, now possessed of a tidy dowry from her father,” his mother continued, “but it doesn’t seem to have been passed on to the bachelors. And if none of the unmarried gentlemen dance with her, they will continue in their opinion of her.” He knew precisely whom she was implying should dance with her.

“Which supposed gentlemen were talking about her so rudely?” he bit out.

She leaned close to whisper, “Those fellows milling about the punch bowl.”

He set his empty glass on a passing tray. “I’ll take care of it, Mother.”

“Wait, Jon! What do you mean to do? You can’t just walk over and berate them for not dancing with her.”

“Watch me,” he muttered under his breath before telling his mother, “I will be circumspect, I promise.”

But first, he meant to solve the problem of no bachelors dancing with her. Tory was standing with Chloe, who, even as he watched, was invited to dance and went off to the floor. He hastened his stride so he could catch Tory alone.

He halted in front of her to bow formally, pleased to see a couple of unmarried gentlemen standing near her. “Miss Morris, may I have the honor of this dance?”

She stared at him blankly, and for half a second, he thought she might actually turn him down. But she was no fool, of course. She curtseyed, and said, “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

He led her to the floor. It was only when he was there that he had an alarming thought. She stood beside him as they waited for the dance to begin, so he moved a bit closer to murmur, “I may have been a bit premature in venturing this.”

“Oh?” she asked, her cheeks reddening.

“I forgot I haven’t danced in eight years or so. I’m not sure I’ll even recognize the music.”

When she didn’t answer, he ventured a glance at her and found her struggling not to smile.

“You find this amusing, do you?” he grumbled.

“You have to admit it’s not the usual situation,” she teased.

“Nothing about my life right now is the usual situation.”

“Well, fortunately for you, we’re about to dance the cotillion,” she explained, “and I’m sure they were dancing those when you were last in England.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “They were, indeed.” And the cotillion wasn’t the intimate sort of dance where he’d be expected to hold her close, thank God. “I can’t promise I won’t make a hash of it, though. It’s been years.”

“I’ll manage,” she said softly. “Is that why you haven’t been dancing? Because you’re afraid of making a hash of it?”

“Partly. But I knew I’d be safe with you.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, for she looked away. “I see,” she said coolly. “I should have guessed it wouldn’t be because you wanted to dance with me.”

“That’s not what I meant. If my lack of skill had been my only reason, I wouldn’t have danced at all. I didn’t intend to dance this evening. But—” He caught himself before he could reveal he was doing this to help her. That wouldn’t go over well, either. She did have a sense of pride.

“But what?” she asked, casting him a searching glance.

“I feared I might never get the chance if I didn’t take it now,” he said truthfully. “Someone will snatch you up eventually, and next thing I know, you’ll be engaged to be wed.”

She cast him a hard look. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that my only partners this evening have been old, married men.”

I mean to correct that, he thought, but didn’t dare say it . She would take it to mean this was, as she had once put it, a pity dance . “That will change eventually. Besides, all those ‘old, married men,’ whom I’m sure you charmed exceedingly well with your wit and ladylike manners, have sons looking for wives.”

“I somehow doubt it was my wit and manners that charmed them into dancing with me.” She glanced down briefly, but none too subtly, at her low-cut gown.

He stiffened. “Did any of them insult you? Because if they did, I swear—”

“You will defend my honor?” She gave a brittle laugh. “Oh, do be serious, Your Grace. If you do that, you will ruin me. That would hardly help your plan to marry me off.”

She was right, unfortunately. And he was half-tempted to do it anyway. Then he’d have to wed her, and she’d be his.

At least until she learned that his ill-fated escape plan had eventually killed her father.

The music began then, and his heart started pounding as he took her gloved hand. It reminded him of when he’d eaten the pear out of her fingers and licked the juice off them. His gaze shot to her, and he could see she remembered it, too, for she got the same little melting look she’d had then. The one that had made him lose his mind.

He swallowed . . . hard . . . then caught her watching his throat. Damn, this would be the longest dance of his life.

Even though they only touched hands, the long stares, slow turns . . . separations to weave in and out of other couples, only to approach each other again in a sensual completion of the step, were as erotic as any waltz. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She showed beauty and grace in every motion. And each time he took her hand in the dance, he wanted to tug her into his embrace and kiss her sweet, silky mouth.

She knew it, too. Her cheeks pinkened more and more the longer they danced. Anyone watching them closely would know in an instant that they’d had an intimate connection at some point before the ball. Yet neither could look away. Thank God, none of the dancers was paying them any mind, and all the spectators were too far away to see the desire shimmering in the air between them.

God, how would he ever learn to deal with this longing for her?

All too soon, their set was over, and he had to lead her from the floor. They were silent as they walked. He glanced over to the punch table to see the bachelors still standing there, observing them both. Good.

Then she cleared her throat. “That was lovely, Jon,” she murmured. “You may not have danced in a while, but clearly your memories of how the cotillion is performed persevered.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You were the best dancing partner I’ve ever had.”

She surprised him by laughing. “Considering you previously were probably dancing with either girls fresh out of the schoolroom in England or married ladies at Verdun, that’s not saying much.”

“Actually, in Verdun, I danced with quite a few French young ladies.” He bent close to whisper, just before they reached Chloe, “Yet you’re still the best.”

She flashed him a shy smile before he released her hand. He wanted to linger with her, but the second half of his mission to gain eligible partners for her wasn’t yet done. He bowed to her, then asked both ladies, “Would either of you like punch?”

“I would,” Chloe said. “I’m positively parched.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Tory said.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, then headed for the punch table. He made a great show of pouring punch in a glass, and just as he expected, one of the bachelors edged up next to him. This lot could never resist trying to become chummy with a man of greater consequence than themselves.

“So . . . Falconridge,” the beak-nosed chap said. “It’s good to see you again.”

Jon turned his head to look down his nose at the man. “Again?”

The young man, who appeared to be twenty-five at most, flushed. “We met at my parents’ soiree a couple of days ago. I’m Knightdale.”

“Ah, right. You’re Manderleigh’s brat.”

The fellow blinked, probably used to being fawned over for bearing the Earl of Manderleigh’s subordinate title, Viscount Knightdale. Then he drew himself up haughtily. “I happened to notice Your Grace dancing with Miss Morris, your sister’s governess. I confess I was surprised, given that any other, more eligible lady in the room would have been honored to dance with you.”

Jon turned back to the punch bowl and ladled out another glass. “Not that it’s any of your affair, sir, but it’s been some years since I danced at an English ball, so I was concerned about my rather rusty dancing skills. I knew Miss Morris, as a former governess, would be happy to guide me through the steps until they came back to me.”

Knightdale snorted. “Of course she would. You’re a duke, and she’s a penniless nobody. You were kind in even deigning to speak to her. Hell, she’s damned fortunate to be here dancing among the rest of us.”

Bloody obnoxious arse. “As it happens,” Jon said smoothly, “my mother, the duchess, is presenting her in Society, as I’m sure you know. Her father was my closest friend in France, and a cousin of Viscount Winslow besides. What’s more, Dr. Morris left her a fortune of five thousand pounds.”

Jon stared at Knightdale hard enough to make the little weasel squirm. “So, she’s quite eligible, probably more so than some ladies here. Thus, I doubt she’s too concerned about who among you lot would dance with her.”

Then, sparing a moment to use his condescending gaze on the rest of them, he picked up his two glasses of punch and walked away, resisting the urge to look back to see the reaction of Knightdale and his fellow weasels.

He approached the two women only to find that Chloe was on the dance floor with the Baron Something-or-Other awaiting the next set. Handing Tory her glass, he said, “I see my sister won’t be around for a while to drink her punch.”

“I’ll hold on to it for her if you wish,” Tory said.

“No need. I’ll just drink it myself and fetch her a fresh glass at the end of the set.” He turned to gaze out over the floor. “I used to hate these things. All the girls my age used to titter when I walked by, and I didn’t know what they were laughing at. But the young ladies do the same thing now, so I guess they weren’t laughing at me.”

“That’s what I would call a nervous laugh. You were a wealthy duke’s son even then. Any look you gave them provided them with hope that they might snag you for a husband one day. And now that you have the title? An eligible duke of your age and good looks is the grand prize in the game of husband-hunting.”

“But not to you,” he said. “No husband is a prize to you.”

She met his gaze with twinkling eyes. “At last, you’ve begun to listen to me.”

“Can you really tell me you don’t see a single fellow here who would interest you?”

She scanned the room. “Perhaps that gentleman in the puce waistcoat. If we danced together, our attire would match beautifully.”

He chuckled. “That’s hardly a reason to choose a husband.”

“But it’s a good reason to dance with him, if he should ask, and I do enjoy the dancing.”

When an awkward silence fell between them, he searched for something to say. Miraculously, he thought of something. “I forgot to tell you. I asked my détenu friend, Mr. Beasley, the man who’s evaluating the prints, to come day after tomorrow in the morning. I will be otherwise engaged with one of my estate managers, but if you still don’t mind meeting with him . . .”

“I’d be happy to,” she said. “I’ve already compiled a list of printshops looking for experienced engravers.”

“Thank you. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

Just at that moment, one of the fellows from the punch group approached and asked to be introduced to Miss Morris. Thank God, Jon remembered his name from a brief conversation they’d had at the soiree. He provided the introductions, trying not to glare at the fellow.

When the arse asked Tory to dance, it was all Jon could do not to ask his intentions. Such a question would, of course, be ludicrous. Jon wasn’t her father or brother or anyone with the right to ask such a thing. He was just . . . an interested party providing her with a secret dowry.

Notwithstanding Mother’s interference in matters, he needed to keep reminding himself of that.

Tory accepted the man’s invitation to dance and went off to the floor without a backward glance. It took only a few moments of watching them whirling about to make him realize he just couldn’t watch her dancing with others anymore. Not now that he knew how eloquently she danced, how wonderful it had been to hold her hand . . . how difficult it would be to watch her marry another.

Enough. He had to escape all these courting couples. Remembering that he’d seen a library earlier on his way in, he headed leisurely in that direction. He was stopped quite a few times by people who knew him, but as the last strains of the dance wafted to him, he reached the hall and freedom.

At least for a while.