Page 72 of Never Beguile a Duke

“However,” the Duke of Beaufort said, moving to Winifred’s left, “I’m not encouraging anything inappropriate occur; the obligation ends when the lady retires. May I have three volunteers?”

A man took Winifred’s hand, his cold fingers wrapping around hers, and he led her a few steps forward. As the music began, he swung her to the left, guiding her into a simple waltz.

She inhaled, hoping to catch a whiff of cinnamon, indicating the Duke of Beaufort had chosen her, but a bitter, musky scent assaulted her nostrils. The smell triggered a memory—the day she was arrested and dragged into prison. The stench caused her stomach to flip, and she’d vomited in the corridor just outside her cell.

Her nose scrunched. Which man in attendance would have spent significant time at the prison?

She gasped, her chest constricting, and released the man, stepping back.

“I know who you are!” she announced over the music. “Mr. Neville Hollingsworth.”

The blindfold was whipped off her head, yanked by the same man, who fell to the floor and grabbed onto Winifred’s legs.

“Please forgive me,” he said, sobbing on the hem of her gown. “I will do whatever it takes to win your hand.”

Winifred’s heart pounded a thunderous rhythm. She glanced around at the people surrounding them, finding the Duke of Beaufort’s pinched face.

Jerking herself free from Mr. Hollingsworth, Winifred ran from the ballroom without giving a reply. She raced down the corridor, careened around the corner, and dashed up the staircase, heading for her bedchamber.

“Stop!” Nora’s shoes echoed in the second-floor hallway as she ran after Winifred. “I thought you were considering Mr. Hollingsworth.”

Winifred whipped around. “That was before…”

“Before?”

She sank her teeth into her lower lip. “I had relations with the Duke of Beaufort.”

“Oh.” Nora glanced up and down the empty hallway. “Are you considering pursuing a relationship with His Grace?”

“I don’t know,” Winifred replied, lowering her voice. “He hasn’t spoken directly to me since.”

“Perhaps he’s struggling with his own emotions,” Nora said, wrapping an arm around Winifred’s waist. “I cannot imagine this is the most ideal time for him to sort out what his heart desires.”

“He invited Mr. Hollingsworth.”

“A decision I’m certain the Duke of Beaufort regrets, and if he doesn’t yet, we’ll help him to see the error.” Nora gently turned Winifred and led her down the hallway toward the staircase. “If you swear not to strike Mr. Hollingsworth, I will help you determine the Duke of Beaufort’s true sentiments toward you.”

Winifred laughed. “Agreed.”

As they descended the steps, their bedchamber door opened, and Mrs. Webb peeked her head out of the room. Silently, she emerged, closed the door with a soft click, and snuck down the corridor in the opposite direction, heading for the servants’ staircase.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT

How did Miss Fernsby-Webb know her partner was Mr. Hollingsworth? Despite her denial, did she still harbor an attachment to the man?

A dull ache spread through Silas’ chest as he stared at the doorway through which Miss Fernsby-Webb and her sister had fled.

“Your Grace!” Mr. Hollingsworth, having crossed the dance floor on his knees, flung himself at Silas’ shoes. “Please speak with Miss Fernsby-Webb on my behalf. You must convince her that my intentions are honorable.”

Silas jerked his leg free and hissed, “I will do no such thing. You are causing a scene. Get up off the floor immediately and act like the gentleman you claim to be.”

Head hanging, Mr. Hollingsworth scrambled to his feet. “I apologize for my behavior, Your Grace.”

Lips pursed, Silas stuck his hand into his jacket pocket and extracted a monogrammed handkerchief, which he passed to Mr. Hollingsworth, who swiped at his face in a feeble attempt to wipe away the slimy mixture of snot and tears dripping from his nose.

“Have you never been in love?” Mr. Hollingsworth asked as Silas grabbed his arm and dragged him from the dance floor.