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K ynthea gaped at the man and would have slugged him in the shoulder if they hadn’t been in public. Worse, she knew he thought he was being helpful, chivalrous even. In his mind, he’d wronged her and so he would find her a husband as if it were as easy as making a mark in a tally sheet.

Only a duke could so blithely believe in his own ability to solve a matrimonial problem.

But she was the daughter of a vicar. She knew that some marriages did not work no matter how good the pair appeared together.

And other matches that rightly should fail, thrived for no earthly reason whatsoever.

She should have been outraged. Indeed, she was outraged!

But how could she be angry at a man who was earnestly trying to help her?

It didn’t matter that her heart wanted him, not whatever dubious replacement he could find.

The duke was being kind. Misguided though his efforts might be, she couldn’t fault his intentions.

She could, however, tell him exactly what she thought of his plans.

“I don’t need you to find me a husband,” she said tartly. “Any more than you needed to bribe Mr. Spencer to write your name on my dance card.”

He arched his brow at her as they made it to the dance floor. “You knew all along?”

Of course she had. And she’d spent much of the evening wondering if she would dance with the duke or not. Would she pretend to be surprised or not? And why had he paid someone else to put his name down on her card?

The questions spun in her head with no answers until the moment came and—damn it—she’d been distracted talking to Dowager Countess Pearce.

The moment she’d looked up, she’d gotten lost in his eyes.

He had lovely eyes of a steady, warm green.

She smelled his scent, saw his broad shoulders, and then looked into his face as contrition seemed to wash through his expression.

He was genuinely sorry, or so he seemed.

And when he dropped down to one knee beside her, she could not refuse him anything.

“Did you really think I couldn’t read the names on my own card? He told me that he’d get an uncut diamond if I allowed it.”

The duke gaped at her. “Bloody hell,” he murmured.

“Is that what that rock is?” He said the words with a kind of distraction as he pulled her into his arms. For all that his mind seemed to be on his bargain with Mr. Spencer, his hands were assured as he set her in place.

She knew how to waltz. Indeed, she’d practiced it with Zoe and knew how to play the part of the man or the woman.

But in this, the duke was clearly the masculine dance partner.

His hand was large upon her hip, and it acted as a heat source that seemed to burn through her body.

His other hand dwarfed hers but still felt gentle where they were clasped together.

She set her left hand upon his shoulder, felt the strength in his body, and tried not to react when her gaze finally met his.

She did not want to feel like she looked into the face of a god.

He was a man, no more, no less. But he was also a duke with a great deal of political and financial power, and he was gazing at her as if she were important to him.

He did not look away, he did not divide his attention, and when she met his gaze, his lips curved into a smile that matched the warmth of his eyes.

Not a god, and yet she felt as if she were held by one nonetheless.

“You are too much for me, Your Grace,” she whispered. Then she bit her lip because she had not intended to say that aloud.

His brows rose in surprise. “Funny,” he drawled. “I was about to say the same thing to you.”

“What?”

“You are a beautiful woman, Miss Petrelli.”

Her brows rose. And because she was feeling overwhelmed by him, her question came out too sharply. “Why?”

He smiled as if such a question was a normal reaction when it definitely was not. “Because you have spoken honestly to me every time we have met. And honesty is a most potent aphrodisiac. At least, it is for me.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She had never considered that people would lie to him simply because he was a powerful man.

“I’m too forgetful to lie,” she said. “I can never remember what I’ve said to whom.”

“You have experience with this?”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t every child? I learned early that I couldn’t keep my stories straight and adults compared notes anyway.”

He grinned. “You had good parents then who paid attention.”

“They did.” And she missed them terribly.

The music began. Indeed, it had started a few moments earlier and he had guided her in her timid, careful steps. That was her choice. She was not one who liked to go crashing about the dance floor. But in this, he steadily overcame her resistance.

With every beat, he encouraged her to take a larger step, to relax into his hold a bit more, to trust that he could support her as they traveled about the room.

They were moving no faster than every other couple in the room, and yet she felt breathless as the dance continued.

His gaze was upon hers, his lips curved into a smile that dared her to enjoy this time together.

Her reserve slipped away. She might be a poor relation, but this was her moment to dance with a duke. How many girls dreamed of such a thing? Here she was doing it. And, it turned out, he was a good dancer.

She smiled back.

His eyes widened in horror. His gait hitched for the briefest of moments but then smoothed out.

She frowned. Had she done something wrong? For all that they continued to twirl about the ballroom, his expression seemed strained, and both his hands tightened.

She wanted to ask what had happened, but she hadn’t the breath. And his expression didn’t seem to encourage conversation. It was too intense and a little bit sick. His steps were not as smooth as before and—

Oh no!

She stepped down on a piece of fabric. She knew immediately what it was. Her slippers were so thin, she could feel the shape of it immediately.

Most gentlemen wore a thin piece of fabric over the laces of their shoes.

It was called a spat, and it was attached to the shoe by simple buttons.

Sometimes, especially when one was dancing vigorously, the buttons came undone.

The fabric then flapped about and sometimes it got caught underfoot.

Not very dangerous in the normal course of a dance, but they were waltzing in very close quarters.

She’d had no idea what was wrong until she stepped on his undone spat. She felt the fabric, knew then that he wouldn’t be able to move as he needed, and immediately saw all the other couples whirling about the dance floor.

Oh hell. That was all the time she had to think as she tried to push off the fabric.

But she didn’t have the right balance, and her foot slipped out from under her.

She overbalanced backward. He couldn’t possibly hold her.

Which meant she was about to land flat on her backside and go skidding across the ballroom floor.

On her one dance with a duke.

Her hand slipped off his shoulder. She might have gripped him if she’d had the chance, but she didn’t. Besides, there was no sense in bringing him down with her. Except he didn’t let go of her.

He must have felt her slip. His hand tightened around hers as he wrapped his arm about her waist. She threw her free hand out, planning to stop the full descent to the floor, but the moment of impact never came.

He picked her up and spun her around.

She was so startled, she gasped. But that quickly turned into a laugh as her feet flew out behind her.

It felt just like being spun in her father’s arms when she was a child, only it was so much better.

The duke was a man with strong arms, and he grinned at her as he held her aloft, slowly spinning to a stop while the couples around them abruptly scrambled out of the way.

She had no idea how he kept her feet from hitting any of them, but no one was harmed, least of all herself.

And when she at last touched down to the earth, his eyes seemed to twinkle as he chuckled. “I haven’t done that since my sister was young.”

“I’m sure I’m a great deal heavier—”

“You were perfect.”

She could have happily stood there just gazing into his eyes for the rest of her life. But all too soon, she became aware of the stares all around her. The musicians had stopped playing, the dancers formed an angry circle around them, and most everyone was glaring at her.

She felt her cheeks heat to burning. After all, she was a simple companion with a dubious reputation. And she’d just gone flying about in a duke’s arms. The biddies were going to crucify her for this.

“My fault,” the duke said by way of apology. “Entirely my mistake.”

With a dramatic air, he stuck his one foot straight up in the air. There, flapping about, was the dangling spat. He grabbed it with one hand and ripped it off, tossing it aside as if it were so much trash. Kynthea saw a footman scramble to grab it off the floor where it landed.

“I’ve always hated those infernal things,” he said. All around them, other gentlemen nodded their agreement which lightened the mood considerably. The women, however, were not so easily convinced. Which meant that Kynthea needed to beat a hasty retreat.

She started to back away, an apology on her lips. “I’m so so—”

“Gentlemen,” the duke interrupted as he gestured to the musicians. “Once again, if you please,” he said. Then he turned back to her and made as if to begin the waltz again.

“I should go,” she whispered. She’d risked a glance at her aunt. The lady looked purple with fury.

“Don’t be silly,” the duke said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You have promised me a waltz and I intend to collect it. If you don’t mind risking yourself again, that is. I am wearing one more spat, you know.”

Oh my. He was being delightful, and after all the strain of the last week, she needed the flash of levity. Besides, how could she resist a duke who smiled so sweetly at her?

She arched a brow and feigned looking down at his foot. “Is it securely buttoned down?”

“Good point,” he said. Then he abruptly dropped down and unbuttoned the second spat, neatly tossing it to the footman who had recovered the other one. Then he glanced at the nearest young man to him. “Go on,” he said as he straightened up. “You know you hate them too.”

He’d picked the right gentleman. “Too right, I do,” the man said as he too knelt down and pulled off his own spats. And he wasn’t the only one. As the duke turned his gaze to the other gentlemen, most of them grinned and happily removed their own spats.

After all, no one wanted to refuse a duke.

She’d begun to think that she’d gotten away without complete disaster when she heard the whispers. As the speakers no doubt intended.

“She’s getting them all to disrobe!”

“Hussy.”

It was only a couple of the more vicious women, but their words carried.

And worse, her uncle was not one of the gentlemen who’d pulled off his spats.

He was older and generally very proper in his notions.

Whatever anyone else thought, he and her aunt would make the final decision on her behavior.

And from the looks on their faces, they were not pleased.

In short, she was done for. Her position would be terminated by morning and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Don’t think about them,” the duke whispered in her ear. “Come, come. The music is starting.”

She sighed as she looked back at him. “I suppose I will,” she said. She could not stop what was coming for her and so she might as well enjoy the moments she had left. She was dancing with a duke. When she was old and gray, she wanted to look back on this moment with pleasure.

“There it is,” he said, smiling in approval.

“What?”

“Spunk.” He said the word as if it were a good thing when she knew most everyone would not say so. In any event, he gave her no time to refuse. The music had started up again. “Do you trust me?” he asked as he began to move her about the room.

She laughed. How could she not? “I’d trust you with my life,” she said.

It was an extreme statement. He’d only saved her from a fall.

And yet, she didn’t doubt the statement.

He’d also stood by her when she’d destroyed her own reputation at Almack’s.

If he’d tarnished his hero status beneath the oak tree, he was now back to Herculean proportions in her mind.

He grinned at her statement and pulled her tighter than was appropriate. “Then let yourself relax into my arms,” he said. “Let us really dance.”

She knew what he meant, at least intellectually. The waltz was considered scandalous because it could be a fast, exhilarating experience that overwhelmed a lady’s delicate sensibilities. Or so she had been told. And now he was daring her to trust him enough to try it.

How could she refuse? Especially since this was likely to be the very last time she danced at a society ball.

“Yes,” she whispered. And then she tried to keep up.

He held her in strong arms, guiding her with assurance. She let herself flow with his body as he whirled them around the room. He danced, but she felt as if she flew.

Spinning. Swirling. Intoxicating.

It was so wonderful that she wanted to laugh again. Only she hadn’t the breath. Instead, she enjoyed every second.

Thrilling.

And when the dance ended, he slowed, then steadied and stopped. She came to a standstill before him and wished with all her heart that she had the nerve to kiss him again. Right here. Right now. If only to thank him for an experience she would never forget.

“So beautiful,” he murmured.

“So overwhelming,” she returned.

He slowly lowered their arms, using the motion to lean closer. “Zoe has a recipe—” he began.

She knew. “I’ll bring it.”

“Carriage?” he mouthed.

“After supper.”

Done. If she were to be tossed out in the morning, why not take every moment of happiness she could tonight?