CHAPTER SEVEN
REXBOROUGH BALL, LONDON – EARLY APRIL, 1814
Grace tapped her foot, impatient as the strains of a waltz started up. She was ready to return home. She’d been ready an hour ago, but hadn’t wanted to make a fuss and drag her sisters away. They were enjoying themselves. No doubt Emmeline had danced with nearly every young buck here and Rebecca had hardly lacked for partners. Grace had refused all requests, making such excuses as she could. Now she stood against the wall, watching the hands of the large, ornate clock at the north end of the room. How much longer would she have to stay?
Malford had reappeared a short time after their library encounter, but did his best to avoid her. Or perhaps to avoid people all together. He’d occasionally check on his sisters and then disappear again. To where, she wasn’t sure. If she ventured to the library, would she find him there again?
What was wrong with her? She shouldn’t be watching for him. This wasn’t her normal behavior, daydreaming about a mysterious man. Kissing a man wasn’t normal behavior, either, and that didn’t stop you.
Chastising her inner devil, she crossed her arms, glowering at the dancers. A young gentleman who’d been making his way to her stopped mid-stride at her expression, the confident smile draining from his face. He turned and walked the other way.
She put a hand to her lips to stifle the giggle threatening to escape. Who knew she had such power as to halt a man in his tracks?
A slight clearing of the throat came from her right side. She looked up into the Duke of Malford’s fierce face. It was far more likely that his dark expression had sent her potential suitor scurrying, not her own meager grimace.
“Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Grace?” He gave her a gallant bow and held out his hand.
All attention was riveted on Malford. And her. Her skin prickled, no doubt flushing that horrid puce she detested when she found herself the object of scrutiny. She should refuse him, should not risk more interaction with him this evening. Her mother’s nearly apoplectic expression, visible from across the room, confirmed it.
Grace had never been the type to defy societal expectations. Not openly, at least. While her inner thoughts often ran wild, her outward appearance, her behaviors in polite society, were never such as to stir up commentary. No scandal had ever been attached to her name, unlike her sister Amara.
Dancing with the Duke of Malford would no doubt alter that, especially as no one had seen them introduced.
A noticeable hush fell over the room. Goose pimples erupted on her skin. She loathed being the center of attention. She should refuse him and end this.
But doing so would surely draw more attention. Unfavorable attention. On him. He hadn’t asked anyone else to dance, she was sure of it. And she wasn’t about to shame him with a public rejection, not after what he’d endured.
Plus, dancing with him meant she could touch him again. And, oh, how she longed to touch him, to prove this was real, not an imaginary dream. She’d kissed this man. She wanted to dance with him, truly wanted for the first time ever to waltz with a man.
Exhilaration burst through her, the sweet sizzle of defiance catching her off guard. Let them talk. She would accept. She would show kindness to this man. Surely no one could fault her for kindness? And if they did? Let that be on them.
“With pleasure, Your Grace,” she replied, placing her hand in his.
His nostrils flared and his eyes widened.
If only she’d answered with some other word. Pleasure brought his kiss back to her—as if she would ever forget it—and her breathing hitched.
His lips twitched into a sly grin. Before she could say anything, he swung her into position, his hand around her waist, his other hand clasping hers. He held the correct amount of distance between them—no one could accuse them of impropriety, beyond the scandalous nature of the waltz itself—and yet she felt as if she were on fire, as if they were the only two people in the room, as if she’d melt into a puddle on the floor should she stop looking into his eyes. Quickly, she turned her head toward the other dancers.
“Chicken,” he teased. He gripped her hand more tightly.
Across the room, her mother held a hand to her throat, horror etched across her face. Emmeline swung by in the arms of some marquess or other and winked at her. A most inappropriate laugh threatened to burst forth at such disparate reactions from two of the people with whom she was closest in the world. She bit her lip to keep it from escaping, startled when Dam—Malford—made a noise, almost like a groan.
She looked up at him. He had closed his eyes, but opened them again, piercing her with the full force of those magnetic blue circles.
“What is it about you, Grace?” he said, shocking her with the use of her Christian name. Had he noticed his error? He whirled her into the next turn, deftly maneuvering her around the other dancers.
“You dance quite well, actually,” she blurted out.
His body tensed and his eyes cooled, although he didn’t release her.
“For an uncultured savage, you mean?” he bit out. “It amazes what one can learn watching one’s sisters’ dance instructor, if one puts his mind to it. And they’ve borrowed me often for practice these last few months.” A harsh sound, almost a bark, escaped him. “So you see, wild dogs can learn new tricks.”
“That’s not at all what I meant. Not in that way, at least. I know you’ve had a different upbringing. But surely you know that is not your fault.” She tilted her head. “To call yourself a savage seems unduly harsh.”
He gave what she could only term a snort and looked away. “Don’t you know? Don’t you know of me? I thought everyone knew of my story, how my father, my mother, sent me north because I was rotten. Evil to the core.”
Now it was Grace’s turn to snort. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but your trials and tribulations have perhaps played a larger role in your life than in mine. No, I have not heard much of you before tonight.”
That wasn’t exactly the truth, given her sisters’ conversation in the carriage. Plus, a week or so past, Emmeline had read something in the daily paper about a duke returned from the dead, who’d grown up in the north, even though his family lived west of London. Grace hadn’t paid attention to the details, however. She’d been immersed in Shakespeare’s sonnets and had tuned out her sister’s incessant prattle, as she often did.
Malford stared at her, nonplussed. She’d surprised him. Good. Why she took delight in that, she didn’t know. But she did. Likely he was used to being the one to set people off balance.
“In any case,” she added with a casual wave, “I set no store in gossip. I’d rather hear the truth from the horse’s mouth.”
He chuckled, an unexpected but pleasant sound. “You’re calling me a horse?”
Grace’s face burned. “Of course not. You know what I meant.”
He nodded briefly as the music came to an end. “Indeed, Lady Grace. Too bad. I rather fancied myself a thoroughbred.”
“Or a stubborn ass.”
Her hand flew to her lips. She’d said that aloud? How her mother would chastise her; women did not speak so plainly in the company of gentlemen. They certainly ought not to speak so rudely. Before she could utter an apology, Malford threw back his head and laughed, a rich burst of amusement that drew every eye to them again.
He bowed before her, delight crinkling his eyes. “I appreciate an honest woman,” he said, raising her gloved hand to his lips before pressing a kiss to it. “Thank you for the dance.”
With that, he strode toward the ballroom entrance, signaling his sisters and calling for his coat.
Grace watched him go, despite everyone gaping at her. Surely they were wondering how she, the notorious wallflower, had snagged the attention of such a man. And what had she said to make him laugh so?
She twirled a curl with her finger. Let them wonder. It wasn’t their concern, anyway.