Page 17

She looked up at him, her expression clouded. “I don’t believe so, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps you should check your dance card.”

She frowned as she looked at the card upon her wrist. It was moderately filled with names. Enough to hide his own one scrawled upon the current dance line.

“Why would you do that?” she asked.

He dropped down to one knee before her. She was seated, so this brought him eye level with her. But it was also an extraordinary posture for a duke to take. He watched her gaze widen. Even more, he heard the collective gasp of all the matronly chaperones watching with unabashed curiosity.

When he spoke, he was cognizant that his every word would be dissected and relayed over and over.

“You have been treated badly lately, Miss Petrelli. Pray let me restore your reputation to the best of my ability. Let me have this dance. Everyone here will bear witness that you attempted to turn me down.”

He caught the eye of several of the women there. One by one, they nodded their agreement, including the most vicious gossipmonger among the chaperones. If he could prevent them from casting aspersions on Miss Petrelli, then the battle was half won.

“Your Grace—” she began, still intending to defer.

“I insist,” he said as he caught her hand.

The dowager seated next to Miss Petrelli poked her in the ribs. “Oh, go on. You’re too young and pretty to turn down a dance, no matter what anyone says about it.”

“Well said,” he agreed. Then he rose up, drawing Miss Petrelli’s arm up with him.

She came to her feet gracefully. He was coming to realize that her body movements were generally smooth, and he wondered if her grace was natural or learned.

“Were you given comportment lessons as a child?” he asked as he led her to the dance floor.

“What?”

“My sister Sara had them. She hated them, and yet somehow recently learned to walk as you do. I wondered if that was the reason.”

“Book on her head, shoulders back, mincing steps? That sort of thing?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Yes, I am sure so.” She shrugged and he found the motion endearing even though it disrupted the glide of her step.

“I may not have been raised with a title, Your Grace, but my parents were part of the gentry. My mother earned money by teaching the local girls some polish. As her daughter, it was incumbent upon me to master every miniscule detail of her curriculum.”

He caught the wry note in her voice. “You did not enjoy it?”

“No girl enjoys it. You try dancing with a book upon your head while your partner purposely pinches you or steps on your toes.”

He snorted at the image of a child being subjected to that. “You are joking, of course.”

“I am not,” she said stiffly. “Do you think a lady is supposed to lose the pattern of a dance just because her partner has trod upon her foot? And what is she to do if his hand slips to an inappropriate location?”

He frowned. “What is she supposed to do?”

Her lips curled in a purely wicked manner. “My father taught us ways to deliver pain to young men. Subtle ways that even innocent girls might execute.”

He believed her, given the sheer delight she had in her smile. “I would think he would tell you to get him or your brother to—”

“Defend my virtue? You forget, Your Grace, that the girls we taught were often without adequate protection. Such was the nature of our lives. Why even—”

“The most proper of girls can be caught alone and unawares?”

He spoke seriously as he referred to their time outside. He could tell she understood by the dark flush to her cheeks.

“I owe you the sincerest of apologies, Miss Petrelli.”

“You already apologized.”

“And yet, I still feel deep remorse.”

She nodded as he gathered her to him for the first steps of the waltz. He thought for a moment that she might say something to him. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. In time, she pressed her lips back together without speaking.

Very well. He would have to work harder for her forgiveness. “I ask for the duration of this dance that you pretend that you believe me. I shall find another way to make it up to you later.”

“You mean in your carriage tonight?” Her words were barely audible, but he heard the cynicism in her tone.

“Lady Zoe’s idea.”

“Yes, so she said.”

“I will not touch you. I swear.”

“Of course not. I will not be there.”

“Most proper of you.”

She lifted her chin, her brow arched as if in challenge. He took up her gauntlet. It made no sense. There had been no challenge issued in word or deed, and yet he saw her raised brow and felt a clarion call within him.

He would prove to her that he was an honorable man. Better yet, he would see that she enjoyed herself in his company, that she learned to trust him to protect her from harm. And that he, as her champion, was worthy of her greatest respect.

He had no idea where this medieval idea came from. It was not typical of his adult mind. And yet, he could no more deny it than he could refuse to take her on his arm in the most delightful waltz of her life.

“Why are you acting this way?” she said. “What do you want?”

He had no clear answer and no time to form a careful one. So he simply said the first thing that sprang to mind.

“I have wronged you, Miss Petrelli. I have damaged your ability to marry. Therefore, in order to make amends, I resolve to find you a good husband. One worthy of your regard.”

That was what he said, and once spoken, he felt the intention solidify into a vow. He would find her a worthy man.

Though just the thought of that burned….