Chapter Two #2
“Certainly, Your Grace. My daughter would never forgive me if I did not.”
The Duke’s gaze flicked toward Elowen—briefly, yet with such force that her breath caught.
“That,” he said quietly, “is something we appear to have in common.”
And before she could make sense of that remark, he addressed her directly. “Miss Tremaine, may I have this next dance?”
His request stunned them all. Elowen might have laughed at the identical expressions of surprise on the dowager’s and Miss Beaumont’s faces—the latter’s mouth had fallen open—had she not been so dazed herself.
Somehow, she managed to speak without sounding as thrown as she felt. “It would be an honour, Your Grace.”
If she had drawn notice while dancing with the Marquess of Cherrington, it was nothing compared to the scrutiny that descended now. Every gaze in the ballroom seemed fixed upon them, whispers spreading like wildfire. The Duke of Beaushire, dancing with the disgraced daughter of Baron Trenton.
Elowen tried to ignore it, though the weight of their curiosity pressed like a hand against her back.
They must think he pities me, she thought.
And perhaps he did. Her beauty had always been her saving grace, but it could not outshine the stain upon her family’s name. No charm or wit could erase such a mark; it had doomed her to a quiet spinster’s fate long ago.
Then his hand closed around hers, and a spark ran through her—startling, heady. She told herself it was nothing more than natural attraction, a mere physical response any woman might have to so striking a man.
“How have you enjoyed the evening thus far, Miss Tremaine?”
His voice nearly startled her, deep and rich. When he drew her nearer, and the first notes of the waltz began, her heart fluttered wildly.
Goodness, I must compose myself.
“I am not, Your Grace.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She blinked, realising too late what she had said. “I meant—I do not need much to enjoy myself, Your Grace. You have hosted a splendid ball.”
“Something tells me that was not what you first intended to say.”
“It was,” she insisted lightly. “I should never dream of offending my host.”
“But would you think it?”
She frowned up at him, caught off guard. His question startled her enough to make her forget the intoxicating scent of his cologne—or the warmth of his hand at her waist.
“I’m sorry?”
He looked down at her without smiling, his expression unreadable, yet she sensed a keen intelligence behind it. “I could not help but notice you earlier this evening, Miss Tremaine. And, if I am not mistaken, your expression suggested that you were not enjoying yourself.”
“I would never presume to suggest such a thing,” she said quickly.
“But would you dare to think it? That is my question.”
Her frown deepened. “It sounds, Your Grace, as though you wish me to admit that I am dreadfully bored and long to be anywhere but here.”
“How… descriptive.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That is precisely the last thing I wish to hear. As host, I should like all my guests to depart content.”
“And I am certain I shall.”
“After this dance, perhaps.”
Elowen bit her tongue to keep from replying too sharply. She could not decide whether the Duke’s persistence came from good nature or sheer arrogance—and she did not particularly care to find out.
“I hope you did not feel obliged to ask me to dance simply because you thought I was not enjoying myself,” she said.
“Obliged? No. Inclined? Quite so.”
“I do not see much distinction between the two.”
“The difference lies in the motivation behind them.”
“And what, pray, is your present motivation?”
“I was curious about you.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. The only reason anyone was curious about her was the scandal that still clung to her family name, and that was the last topic she wished to entertain.
“How interesting,” she murmured, noncommittal, turning her gaze over his shoulder in the hope he would let the matter fall.
But of course, he did not. “Are you not going to ask why I am curious?”
“No, Your Grace, I am not.”
“And why not?”
“I think the answer would be rather self-evident,” she replied, her tone a little crisper than she intended.
“Ah, and now my curiosity grows,” he said lightly.
There was a pause, one she hoped would last for the rest of the dance because she wasn’t certain she could navigate this conversation any longer, but she had no such luck when he spoke again.
“I am not being particularly gracious, am I? Forgive me, Miss Tremaine. This is not at all how I imagined our first conversation would proceed, and I am already making a hash of it.”
That drew her eyes back to his despite herself. Her heart gave a startled leap to find he was already watching her closely.
“I find it difficult to believe,” she said softly, “that you imagined conversing with me at all beyond our brief introduction. There is nothing of note in me to inspire such thought.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“You do not know me,” she felt obliged to point out—save, perhaps, for the gossip that has ruined my family.
“And that,” he said, his voice low, “is the first thing I should like to remedy.”
The final notes of the waltz faded, forcing them apart. “Thank you, Miss Tremaine,” he said.
Thinking he referred merely to their dance, she inclined her head politely. “You are most welcome, Your Grace. I enjoyed it.” She was surprised by how much she meant the words.
“As did I—and I usually detest dancing.”
“Well, then you are free to abstain for the remainder of the evening,” she replied lightly. “It is your ball, after all.”
“Will you dance with me again?”
“Of course not.”
Elowen froze. Her eyes widened in horror. Good gracious, what have I said? She prided herself on her composure—how could she have let such a thought slip?
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” he interrupted, laughter colouring his tone.
To her shock—and her relief—he seemed thoroughly amused.
“Though the sting is real, it is refreshing to encounter such candour. And you are quite right: a second dance might invite speculation, and I should hate to be the cause of a single raised eyebrow on your account.”
“Since you understand perfectly, Your Grace, I see no need to belabour the matter.”
“On the contrary.” Without warning, he caught her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm as they began their slow return toward their waiting families. “I feel compelled to make amends for our limited opportunity. Perhaps I shall hound you for the rest of the evening.”
Elowen’s lips curved despite herself. “Oh, I cannot think of anything worse,” she said lightly.
“No need to spare my feelings, Miss Tremaine,” he drawled.
A laugh escaped her—light, genuine, and startling after so many months of restraint. “You do not seem to mind when I speak plainly, so I hardly thought you would take offence.”
“I do not,” he said with mock solemnity. “Go on then—tell me how little you relish the thought of enduring another moment in my company.”
She laughed again, the sound almost foreign to her ears. It had been too long since she had truly laughed. “You are very kind, Your Grace—and rather charming. But I am afraid others will begin to talk if you linger in my company much longer.”
“Perhaps,” he said, his tone deliberately casual. “But I must admit, my motives are not entirely altruistic. I hoped to make use of you.”
Her brows rose. “Make use of me?”
“To deter the other ladies from approaching. You are a most effective shield.”
“You hardly need me for that, Your Grace. You possess a perfectly adequate weapon of your own.”
“Oh? And what would that be?” he asked, a faint scowl creasing his brow.
She slowed her steps, her lips curving. “That look you wear so well—one hint of a scowl, and the boldest of debutantes will think twice before approaching.”
His expression deepened, though amusement glimmered beneath it. “And give them nightmares for days, no doubt.”
“That would be impossible,” she returned, unable to suppress a smile. “You are far too handsome for that.”
His brows shot upward. Elowen froze, mortified. Mercy, did I truly just say that aloud?
She cleared her throat quickly and turned away.
“The others are waiting,” she said, her tone brisk, and she walked off before he could reply.
It felt suspiciously like running—and she did not run from anything.
Yet the warmth creeping up her neck urged her to escape before she said anything equally foolish.
Her father and the Dowager Duchess were still deep in conversation when she returned, though both looked up at once. Miss Beaumont had vanished. Papa’s brow furrowed immediately, sensing something amiss.
But Elowen could not meet his gaze just yet. She had to first manage the Duke still at her heels. Turning, she summoned the composure she had promised herself she would maintain throughout the evening.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Grace,” she said, her voice calm, distant.
He regarded her a moment longer than necessary—long enough for her pulse to quicken once more. “You are welcome, Miss Tremaine.”
She inclined her head. “If you will all excuse me, I believe I should fetch something to drink.”
She left before anyone could answer. The prickling at the back of her neck told her, however, that the Duke’s gaze followed her every step.
For the life of her, she could not understand why.