Page 27 of Tantalizing the Duke
“—Dainsfield has clearly lost his?—”
Dainsfield’s fingers pressed more firmly against her back, his arm a band of steel beneath her hand. Though his face maintained its aristocratic composure, Milly felt the tension radiating from him like heat from banked coals. His jaw had hardened to granite, his eyes scanning the crowd with cold precision, noting each whisper, each smirk, each assessing glance.
“Smile,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “They’re waiting for you to crumble.”
Milly’s lips curved upward, the expression genuine despite everything. Something about his protective ferocity warmed her from within, dissolving the knot of anxiety in her chest. She was Milly Nichols no longer—she was the Duchess of Dainsfield, and this man of ice and iron had chosen her above all others.
They had almost completed their circuit of the room when Lady Summercourt’s voice cut through the general murmur, pitched to carry just far enough to ensure maximum damage.
“Some women will do anything to secure a title, I suppose,” she drawled, her eyes fixed pointedly on Milly while addressing the circle of tittering ladies around her. “Even if it means?—”
The sudden cessation of Dainsfield’s movement cut her off mid-sentence. The duke turned with deliberate slowness, his expression controlled but somehow more dangerous for its restraint. “I couldn’t help but overhear your observation, Lady Summercourt. And I feel compelled to correct your misapprehension.”
Lady Summercourt’s smile froze, a faint flush beginning to creep up her neck. “Your Grace, I merely?—”
“My wife secured nothing but my heart, Lady Summercourt.” His words fell like perfectly aimed daggers, soft but lethal. “A feat I suspect few would manage with yours.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Lady Summercourt’s face bloomed crimson, her fan snapping open with such force it nearly disintegrated in her trembling fingers. Around them, several onlookers hastily raised glasses or fans to hide their expressions—some embarrassed, others clearly struggling to contain their delight at the public humbling of one of society’s most notorious gossips.
Lady Summercourt retreated with as much dignity as she could muster, which amounted to very little. Her circle of admirers dispersed like smoke in wind, leaving her to make her way alone to a distant corner of the room.
Milly glanced up at Dainsfield, whose expression had not changed except for a faint gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes. “That was rather forceful, Your Grace.”
“I’ve found that some lessons require clarity to be effective,” he replied, guiding her forward once more. Against her hand, she felt the tension in his arm ease slightly. “Besides, she impugned your honor.”
“I’ve survived worse,” Milly said, though warmth bloomed in her chest at his defense.
“You shouldn’t have to.” His voice was low, almost tender—a tone she’d heard rarely from him, even in private. “Not anymore.”
As they continued their progress through the room, Milly noticed a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Glances still followed them, but some held curiosity rather than contempt. A few heads nodded respectfully as Dainsfield’s gaze met theirs. Lady Summercourt’s humiliation had demonstrated something vital—the Duke of Dainsfield had not been tricked or seduced into this marriage. He had chosen his bride, and he would protect her with all the considerable power at his disposal.
For the first time since entering the ballroom, Milly felt her shoulders relax. The night was young, the battle newly joined—but they had drawn first blood.
The tension in Dainsfield’s shoulders had barely begun to ease when the Duke and Duchess of Abingdon cut through the crowd toward them, moving with the purposeful grace of those accustomed to parting seas of society. The Duchess wore a gown of sapphire silk that complemented her fair coloring, her smile warm and genuine as she extended both hands toward Milly. Behind them, like reinforcements arriving at a besieged castle, came Lord and Lady St. Ervan and Lord and Lady Longford, their determined expressions suggesting they had witnessed Lady Summercourt’s retreat and drawn their own conclusions about the evening’s battle lines.
“Dainsfield,” Abingdon said, clapping his friend on the shoulder with an easy familiarity that belied the duke’s forbidding countenance. “Congratulations on your marriage. Though I must say, the speed of it deprived us all of the pleasure of watching you squirm through a proper engagement.”
His wife swatted his arm lightly. “What my husband means to say,” she said, taking Milly’s hands in hers, “is that we are delighted for you both. Welcome to our little circle, Your Grace.”
“Call me Milly, please,” Milly replied, the genuine warmth in her voice revealing how rarely she had encountered such sincerity in society’s drawing rooms. “And thank you.”
“Milly it shall be,” the duchess agreed, “though I shall enjoy watching the faces of those who’ve never dared address me so informally when they hear it.”
Before Milly could respond, Betty breached protocol entirely by embracing her in a cloud of rosewater and enthusiastic affection. “How absolutely beautiful you look as a bride! Dainsfield, you are the envy of every man here tonight—though most haven’t the good sense to recognize it yet.”
Her husband, Viscount Longford, rolled his eyes fondly. “My wife believes volume correlates with persuasiveness,” he explained to Milly with a conspiratorial smile.
“And she’s not wrong,” chimed in Verity as she joined their circle. Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief in a face designed for breaking hearts, her gown of deep crimson making her look like a particularly fetching devil come to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting. “Men are generally quite stupid about these things and require firm guidance.”
She turned to Dainsfield, her smile widening. “Speaking of which, I must compliment you on your excellent taste in wives, Your Grace. Quite the improvement on your usual companions.”
Milly watched in fascination as Dainsfield’s stern countenance softened into what could only be described as a smile—a transformation so unexpected that several nearby guests actually paused mid-conversation to stare.
“Lady St. Ervan,” he replied, inclining his head. “Still tormenting that husband of yours, I see.”
Verity laughed, a bright sound that drew attention from across the room. “He’d be terribly bored otherwise.”
The Earl of St. Ervan, a handsome man with an air of amused tolerance, shook his head. “She’s not wrong,” he said, echoing Longford’s earlier sentiment, earning chuckles from their circle.