Page 11 of Her Rogue of a Duke
“You seem rather distracted,” he chimed. “What could possibly be preoccupying your mind more so than my visage, I wonder?”
Without meeting his gaze, she responded, “It is nothing to concern yourself with, Your Grace. I am certain you are not truly interested in my affairs.”
“You don’t think I am interested in you?” He moved closer to her ears. “You are living under my roof, my lady. It is mydutyto take an interest,” he whispered, tickling her neck.
Goose pimples erupted across her skin. “You—you need not,” she assured him as they glided across the dance floor, her eyes still scanning the crowd, albeit with a lot less focus than just before. “In fact, you should not feel any obligations toward me at all.”
He did not respond to that and was silent for several moments.
At length, he murmured, “That dress complements your figure perfectly. I had a feeling it would.”
Francesca tensed, her body growing warmer. “Yes, well… thank you, Your Grace. It was quite generous of you to provide it.”
“The color matches your pendant nicely,” he observed, his eyes dropping to the shiny stone hanging around her neck. “I noticed you always seem to wear it. An odd piece, though, with that crack down the middle of the stone.”
Francesca swallowed but shrugged, her tone nonchalant as she replied, “A family heirloom. That is all.”
“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “Speaking of family, where is your father again? I cannot seem to recall.”
“He is away,” she answered quickly. “He should return soon.”
“Well, that is good to hear,” he nodded, a sly smirk playing on his lips. Again, he subtly shifted closer to her ear, “It is hardly proper, having an unmarried woman in my home. What wouldall the other ladies think if they were to find out? They would be far from pleased with my behavior.”
Though his grin implied he was jesting, Francesca felt oddly stung by his words. She knew his reputation for being a rake, and her presence was no doubt keeping him from seducing his next conquest. She could not say for certain why that idea bothered her so much, but it did. She hated feeling like a burden.
“My lady? Are you paying attention?”
Before she could respond, his grip on her waist glided to the small of her back and he drew her close into his steel-like body. So much so, she felt his scent of bergamot mixed with cinnamon and a tinge of ambergris overwhelm her. Startled, she whipped her gaze up to his to be met with an intense expression and set jaw, her heart hammering in her chest. They were so close, it bordered on impropriety. She could feel the heat pulsing from his body. It seemed to wrap around her and bind her to him. Her breathing quickened, and her stomach fluttered with a sensation reminiscent of butterflies.
For an instant, she was transported back to her younger days, in awe of this man and halfway in love with him in her young mind. Feelings she had long thought dead and buried bubbled up, catching her off guard.
Thankfully, before she accidentally made a fool of herself by letting her sudden feelings overwhelm her, the song came to an end. She quickly stepped out of the circle of his arms, creating some distance between them. That helped to calm her racingheart and thoughts. She bit her lip as she looked up at him, at a loss as to what she should say.
Before she could come up with anything, though, he jerked his chin toward someone behind her. “I believe the person you have been searching for all evening is over there,” he indicated. “You should go and catch up with him. It looks as though he is leaving.”
With a start, Francesca spun around and spotted Lord Terrell just before he slipped out of the ballroom.
“Oh! Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, turning back to him and offering a quick curtsy. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
Before he could reply, Francesca turned and hurried after Lord Terrell, the fleeting resurgence of feelings for the Duke already slipping from her mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Francesca stepped out of the ballroom and into the quieter corridor beyond. Looking to the left and right, her frown deepened when her viscount was nowhere in sight.
Now, where might he have wandered off to so hastily?
She made her way down the corridor, largely devoid of guests, and glanced into each empty room she came upon.
As she searched, she struggled to dismiss thoughts of the Duke from her mind. The memory of his hand on her waist, the warmth of his presence enveloping her, lingered distractingly. Her heart fluttered at the recollection, but she firmly reminded herself that she could not afford such distractions. The Duke had no place in her thoughts or her heart; her focus should be on Lord Terrell. He was the one who would lift her from her dire circumstances. He would be her savior. Her hero.
Her husband.
She did not need to complicate matters by thinking of the Duke and allowing silly, long-forgotten feelings to resurface.
Her determination doubled, and she continued on down the corridor, looking inside every room, yet Lord Terrell was nowhere to be found. After several moments, she came to a stop and put her hands on her hips, baffled. It was as though he had just disappeared.
Then, she heard it – the unmistakable sound of a gentleman’s laughter, and she immediately recognized Lord Terrell's voice. It seemed to be coming from just ahead, in one of the nearby rooms.