Page 14 of Tantalizing the Duke (Wayward Dukes Alliance #22)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T he great oak doors loomed before them like sentinels guarding the entrance to a battlefield rather than a ballroom. Milly’s fingers, encased in pristine white gloves, trembled slightly against Dainsfield’s arm. One week a duchess, and tonight she would face the very society that had spent years whispering behind fans about her parentage. Dainsfield covered her hand with his, the pressure firm, reassuring. His face remained impassive, but the muscle working in his jaw betrayed his tension.
“Ready, Your Grace?” he murmured, the formality of her new title softened by the unexpected gentleness in his voice.
Milly drew a steadying breath, her shoulders straightening beneath the shimmering ivory silk of her gown. “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, a hint of mischief brightening her eyes despite her nerves.
The doors swung open, and the butler’s voice rang out with practiced precision: “His Grace, the Duke of Dainsfield, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Dainsfield.”
The makeshift ballroom before them—three rooms connected by hastily removed partitions—glittered with candles. Garlands of spring flowers draped across mantels and doorways, their perfume mingling with the more potent scent of curiosity.
The modiste had performed nothing short of sorcery to create Milly’s gown in time for the celebration—yards of ivory silk embroidered with silver thread that caught the light with every movement, transforming her into a creature of moonlight and grace.
Dainsfield stood beside her, tall and imposing in midnight blue, his black hair gleaming almost blue-black in the candlelight. His hand at the small of her back guided her forward, his touch a shield against the hundred pairs of eyes that followed their progress.
Conversation dimmed momentarily before surging again like a wave against rocks, but now fractured into poorly concealed observations. Milly caught fragments as they moved through the crowd, each one sharp enough to draw blood.
“—illegitimate, of course?—”
“—special license, if you can imagine?—”
“—scandal with Lord?—”
“—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.
The laughter had barely subsided when another figure approached, tall and imposing but moving with the easy confidence of a man who has never questioned his welcome anywhere. The Duke of Nomansland clapped Dainsfield on the shoulder with enough force to make a lesser man stagger.
“Never thought I’d see the day. Our grumpy duke, married at last. And to such a lovely duchess.” He bowed over Milly’s hand with exaggerated gallantry. “Your Grace, I commend your bravery in taking on this particular matrimonial challenge.”
Dainsfield’s eyebrow arched. “Nomansland. I’m surprised you managed to extract yourself from Lady Winterton’s clutches to attend.”
“Lady Winterton is here with her husband,” Nomansland replied with a perfectly straight face. “I merely escorted her daughter in from the carriage.”
“Of course you did,” Abingdon snorted, before turning his attention back to the topic at hand. “So, Nomansland, when will you join our ranks? You’re the last holdout among our illustrious group of reformed libertines.”
The others turned to Nomansland with expressions of exaggerated interest, clearly revisiting a long-standing topic of friendly debate. The unmarried duke shook his head firmly, his smile never wavering.
“Some of us prefer freedom to matrimony,” he replied, though Milly noticed his eyes lingering on her and Dainsfield’s clasped hands with something that might have been curiosity rather than the dismissal his words implied. “Not all men are designed for domestic bliss.”
“Neither was Dainsfield,” Verity pointed out, her smile turning sly. “Yet here he stands, looking almost human. Miracles do happen.”
Nomansland laughed, but his gaze returned briefly to the couple’s intertwined fingers before he raised his eyes to study Dainsfield’s face. “Indeed they do,” he murmured, something unreadable flickering across his features before his usual carefree expression reasserted itself. “Though perhaps we should preserve one or two bachelors for the sake of variety.”
As their circle of friends continued their good-natured banter, Milly became aware of subtle shifts in the ballroom’s dynamics. Their laughter—genuine and warm rather than the practiced tittering of society amusement—drew attention. Several of the ton’s more influential members were watching their friendly group with undisguised interest, some even nodding in acknowledgment when Dainsfield’s gaze met theirs.
Dainsfield’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly around hers, and Milly realized he had noticed the shift as well. The tide had not turned completely—that would take more than a single evening—but the waves of opinion had begun to ripple outward from their circle of acceptance.
“I believe,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear, “that the evening may be progressing better than anticipated.”
Milly smiled up at him, warmed by the protection of true friends and the steady presence of the man who had gambled his reputation on her worth. “It appears we make a rather compelling case together, Your Grace.”
His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment the ballroom around them faded into insignificance. “Indeed we do, Your Grace. Indeed we do.”
The orchestra in the corner drew their bows across strings in the opening notes of a waltz. Conversations paused as the music rose, filling the joined rooms with expectation.
A ripple of movement spread through the crowd as guests withdrew from the center of the room, creating a perfect circle of empty floor bordered by curious faces. Some expressions held disdain, others speculation, but all held interest—no one would miss this performance, this test of the controversial new duchess.
Dainsfield led Milly to the center of the floor with measured steps. In the sudden quiet, the whisper of her silk gown against the polished wood seemed thunderous. She felt the weight of every gaze like physical pressure on her skin, but kept her chin lifted, her eyes on her husband’s face.
“Remember,” he murmured, just loudly enough for her alone to hear, “you’ve already won the only prize that matters tonight.”
A smile bloomed across her face, genuine and radiant. “Have I, Your Grace?”
His hand settled at her waist as they took their positions, five points of heat through the silk of her gown. “You secured my heart, did you not?” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rare, unguarded smile that transformed his severe features into something that made several ladies in the audience draw sharp breaths.
The music swelled, and Dainsfield led her into the first steps of the waltz with fluid grace that belied his imposing frame. Milly matched him perfectly, her years of dancing lessons finally serving their intended purpose. They moved together as though they had danced a thousand waltzes, her gown swirling around their legs, his steady hand guiding her through each turn with confidence that required no words.
The rhythm became a heartbeat, the music a current they rode together. The ballroom blurred around them, faces smearing into a wash of color and light. For Milly, the world contracted to the space between them—his hand at her waist, her palm against the fine wool of his coat, their eyes locked in silent communion.
The perpetual furrow between Dainsfield’s brows had smoothed away, and something in his gaze made Milly’s heart flutter against her ribs like a captive bird. She had seen him angry, seen him determined, seen him coolly dismissive—but this unguarded tenderness was new, a gift given to her alone in a room full of witnesses who could see but never truly understand.
Their fingers brushed as he turned her, and the contact sent a shiver across her skin that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. His eyes darkened slightly, telling her he’d felt it too—this invisible cord of awareness that had first drawn them together despite all sense and society’s disapproval.
As the final notes of the waltz faded, Dainsfield brought them to a perfect stop, his bow matching her curtsy with synchronized precision. The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat before applause scattered through the crowd—tentative at first, then growing in confidence. Several ladies along the edge of the floor were openly dabbing at their eyes, their earlier disdain forgotten in the romance of the moment.
The orchestra began another dance, and other couples moved onto the floor. Milly noticed with surprised pleasure that some of the very people who had been most vocal in their disapproval earlier now took to the floor, as though dancing in the same space as the new duchess might not be so objectionable after all.
As the evening drew to a close, Milly realized with quiet amazement that while not everyone had been won over, the atmosphere had undeniably shifted. Several influential members of society had given their tacit approval through their attentions. Even those who maintained their distance seemed less certain in their disdain, as though reconsidering positions taken in haste.
The last guests departed with final congratulations and promises of future visits. As the door closed behind them, Dainsfield turned to Milly in the suddenly quiet entrance hall, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders.
“You were magnificent tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate in the space between them. “They’ll all adore you soon enough.”
Milly smiled up at him, reaching to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from his lapel simply for the pleasure of touching him. “I find I’m no longer terribly concerned with their opinion, now that I have what I truly wanted all along.”
His eyebrow arched in question. “And what was that?”
She rose on tiptoe, her lips a breath away from his. “You, Your Grace. Simply you.”
His arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her against him as his mouth claimed hers with a hunger that had nothing to do with society’s approval and everything to do with the woman in his arms. In that moment, with the echo of the evening’s music still hanging in the air, Milly knew they had won something far more valuable than the ton’s acceptance—they had found in each other a home that no whisper or scandal could ever breach.