Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The annual ball at Lord Eldridge’s residence was a trial of endurance for William. It involved three hours of standing on marble floors, discussing ecclesiastical law with old codgers and the rising cost of grain with men who seemed to have been born bored.
But tonight, with Anne on his arm in a gown of deep emerald silk, the air in the crowded ballroom felt lighter.
“Do you see the man by the punch bowl?” Anne whispered, leaning in so her lips almost brushed his ear as they sauntered through the throng. “The one with the wig that is slightly askew?”
William looked. “Lord Burlington. He has worn that wig since the Regency, and I suspect he sleeps in it.”
“He has been trying to catch your eye for ten minutes,” Anne said, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I believe he wants to discuss the Corn Laws.”
“Then we shall go the other way,” William declared, steering her toward the terrace doors and pulling her close against him.
“William! That is terribly rude,” she gasped, though she followed him readily.
“I am a duke,” he said, leading her into the cool night air of the garden. “I am permitted to be rude in the pursuit of peace. Otherwise, what are the benefits?”
“I can think of some benefits.”
Her words hung heavy in the breeze as they breathed in the night air. The garden was illuminated by lanterns hung from the trees, casting shadows across the flowers below. They walked in silence for a few minutes among the hedges, the sound of the orchestra muffled behind them.
“You aren’t bored with me?” William asked, stopping near a stone fountain.
“Not at all,” Anne said, turning to face him. “I very much like this new you.”
“New me?”
“Yes.” She smiled.
“There is a gala going on in there. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather—”
“I am finding that I quite enjoy your company.”
William stepped nearer, closing the space between them. He reached out and cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
“I very much enjoy when we can just be us, no managing or ducal duties. Although you are quite good at it. Managing, that is.”
“I was never very good at managing you, Anne,” he murmured. “You have been in control since I met you. I am powerless to resist you.”
“I find…” she trailed off, a tinge of pink teasing her high cheekbones.
“What is it?”
“I find… I like relinquishing control.”
“Is that so?”
“To you.”
“I am not sure I understand.”
“I like it when you take control of me. Under… certain circumstances.”
“Is that so?” he growled. “Are you referring to nocturnal activities?”
He leaned down, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, yet searing as a brand. It was a claim, a recognition of the fire that had been simmering between them incessantly.
Anne’s hands flew up, curled into the lapels of his evening coat as she pulled him closer. When he finally drew back, his breathing was ragged.
“We should go back inside, before someone comes looking for us.”
“Let them look,” Anne said, her voice breathless and low.
Her own words surprised her.
Let them look.
She had not known she was going to say it until it was said.
And having said it, she found she meant it.
She entirely, shamelessly meant it in a way that a more respectable version of herself, the one who had sat in drawing rooms these many years and held her tongue and held her wants and held her breath, would not have recognized.
William had gone very still. His thumb had stopped tracing her jaw.
“Anne,” he said, almost a warning.
“Yes.”
“Do you know what you are saying?”
“Yes. I… think so.”
“Tell me you know.”
“William, I know.”
He let out a breath that was not quite steady.
He took her hand, and she felt the warmth and the slight tremor in his fingers. He tugged her off the path, behind the tall yew hedge that ran along the fountain, and into a pocket of darkness the lanterns did not reach.
A stone bench stood against the hedge. Beyond, at a considerable distance, the orchestra was playing. Anne could hear the waltz more clearly out here than she had on the path. The violins rose and fell like a breathing thing.
William did not lower her onto the bench. Instead, he gently pressed her back against the warm stone wall of the alcove, one hand on the small of her back to keep the roughness from her gown. His other hand returned to her face.
“You are certain?”
“William, if you ask me once more whether I am certain, I shall go and find Lord Burlington and discuss the Corn Laws with him at length.”
He laughed low against her mouth, and then he was kissing her, and there was no more talking for a long moment.
Their lips moved in tandem, like in a waltz, his tongue sliding in as he tasted her.
His mouth was hot, unhurried, and entirely sure of itself.
His hand slid from her jaw and into her hair, careful of the pins, and then to the nape of her neck, where his palm settled warm against the bare skin above her collar.
Anne made a small sound she had not intended to make. She felt him smile briefly against her lips.
“Hush,” he murmured. “They will hear you.”
“Take control. I will be a good girl,” she sighed. “I want—”
“What? This?” He lightly pinched her nipples through her gown.
“William.”
His mouth had moved to her throat as he continued to fondle her breasts. To the hollow at the base of it, where her pulse was racing. She tipped her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.
The waltz was still playing somewhere on the other side of the yew tree. She could hear the rise and fall of voices on the terrace. She caught bright laughter, a woman’s exclamation, the clink of a glass.
A whole ballroom of people stood ten yards away, and she was here in the dark, with her husband’s mouth on her throat and his hand on the small of her back, and she did not care one bit.
She ought to have cared. A younger Anne would have cared very much, would have worried endlessly. But that Anne had gone somewhere this summer and not left a forwarding address.
His hand slowly slid around her back to her waist, then up along the silk of her bodice, pausing beneath her breast as though asking. She answered by putting her hand over his and pressing on it gently.
He exhaled against her throat. A shaky exhale. She felt a small, fierce, wholly improper pride at having done that to him.
“Anne.”
“Mm?”
“We cannot do it here. I will not—”
“I know.”
“I only mean I wish—”
“I know, William. I know.”
His forehead came to rest against hers. They stood like that a long moment, breathing each other’s breath, his hand still beneath her breast, her hand still over his. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought he must be able to feel it under his palm. She was quite sure she could feel his.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She did.
His eyes were very dark. In the faint glow that reached them from the garden lanterns beyond the hedge, she could only see parts of his face—the line of his cheekbone and the edges of his scar, the corner of his mouth, the small crease at the outer corner of his left eye.
“I am going to take you home,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“In our own good time. Not now. Now, we shall return to the ballroom, and I shall dance with you, and I shall behave with perfect propriety for precisely as long as is required, and not a moment longer. Do you understand me?”
“William,” she sighed.
“Do you understand me, Anne?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.”
He kissed her once more, briefly, as though to seal it. Then he stepped back.
His hand released her slowly, as though reluctant to relinquish the ground it had taken. He was, she noticed, somewhat out of breath. She took a small satisfaction in that, too.
He offered her his arm, and she laid her hand on it. Her fingers were trembling slightly. He covered them with his own, steadying them, and did not remark upon it.
They walked back into the ballroom as though they had merely been taking the air.
The orchestra was playing another waltz as they re-entered. William did not release her hand. He led her straight to the dance floor, which in itself was a small scandal.
The Duke of Dawnhurst was notoriously reclusive, and now here he was with his new wife. He set his hand on her waist. She rested hers on his shoulder. His other hand closed around her fingers.
“William,” she whispered. “Everyone is looking.”
“Yes.”
“You do not mind?”
“No.” He looked down at her. “Do you?”
She considered. A month ago, she would have. A week ago, possibly. Tonight, she did not, not in the least. For she was with him.
“No,” she replied.
“Good.”
He led her into the waltz.
He danced extremely well. She ought not to have been surprised. He did most things well that he could be bothered to do at all. He moved her through the steps with easy authority, his hand firm on her waist, his eyes fixed on her face rather than on the room.
She had the peculiar sensation of being the only thing in the ballroom he was interested in looking at.
“You are staring,” she noted.
“I am.”
“People will talk.”
“Let them. You are my wife, after all. This is hardly a scandal.”
She laughed.
He turned her neatly on the downbeat and drew her a fraction closer than the dance required, making her breath catch. Over his shoulder, she could see Lord Burlington by the punch bowl, his wig still faintly askew, watching them with an expression of mild astonishment.
Lady Eldridge, who was standing on the far side of the room, was whispering urgently to her sister behind a fan.
Anne did not care. She had not cared about much since she had stepped behind the hedge.
The waltz eventually ended, and still, William did not let go of her hand.
He led her off the dance floor with the same unhurried authority, collected her shawl from the waiting footman, said a gracious and entirely perfunctory good night to Lord and Lady Eldridge, and then handed her into the carriage before swirls of gossip considered the reason for their early departure.