Chapter Eleven
After some convincing—“’tis just not done!”—Banks had agreed that Xander could help with deliveries at the public house before hours when he had time, but preferably with notice so that Banks could give one or more of his workers the day off, with pay, of course.
As for having a meal and a drink, Banks suggested easing the other pub-goers into things as Frazer had.
Perhaps a drink in a corner of the room or at the end of the bar, and the meal in the private dining room or, if it wasn’t busy, in Banks’ office with the proprietor joining him.
Then they could ease him into spending longer at the bar in a few weeks.
Heeding their concerns, Xander had agreed and had already spent three evenings lurking in a dark corner of the public room, nursing an ale and fielding questioning looks and deferential nods.
Happily, the quizzical looks had become shorter and shorter before the other patrons went about their business.
Those occasional mornings and evenings had saved his sanity.
Focusing on physical labor and watching people who performed it all day reminded him to wield his new power for the good of the majority of the country, not those who held money and power and wanted to retain it.
On the other hand, it made him miss his simpler life in a new way.
If he wasn’t a duke, he wouldn’t need to marry, and he could tup whom he pleased, including a maid with gorgeous reddish-brown hair hidden under a mobcap.
Having sent the requisite note after his conversation with Evie, Xander was in the back alley bright and early the next morning. If anyone knew where to find musicians on short notice, Banks would.
Sure enough, Banks had a few ideas and told him he’d send a note over after he’d made a few inquiries. By the midday meal, Xander had musicians scheduled to arrive after supper.
The meal itself was frustrating. Before he was even allowed to sit down, Evie called him to find the long dining table set as though for a dozen guests.
He was given placards with names on them, only half of which he recognized, and she led him around the table, indicating where each would sit and why.
She’d been kind enough to include his mother and stepfather, but not his brother. But with the duke and the marquess who had visited among the names, his parents were seated several chairs down from his seat at the head of the table, which made no sense to him.
“Why is my brother not among these names?”
Evie gulped. “Your brother is…problematic.”
Xander frowned in confusion. “You’ve never met him. He’s a lot nicer than I am by most people’s standards.”
“The Ton do not welcome…illegitimate relations at a formal dinner.”
He stared. She was joking, wasn’t she? She must be.
There would never be a house of his that did not welcome Bruce to all social events within it.
Finally, he said, “Do you know where he’d sit if I ignored etiquette and included him?
Never mind, I suspect I know. It would be the farthest end of the table from me, with the lowest-ranked guests. ”
She nodded, her hands clasping and unclasping in front of her.
“’Tis quite all right, Evie. You do not make the rules. I’ll make a note of it. That is not where Bruce will sit at any dinner I host.”
Moving on quickly, she cleared the other settings away and sat to his left—where his mother might sit if she had been duchess before him, or where his own duchess would one day sit.
There were more sets of utensils surrounding his plate than he’d ever seen, and she’d organized an eight-course meal with the kitchen.
Finally, the whole ordeal was done. Mentally exhausted from all the rules around dining, he stood, needing a moment to steady himself with the back of his chair.
Eight courses came with a similar increase in wine consumption.
While he could hold his liquor with the best of them after working at a pub these past years, he wasn’t sure he was up to dancing after consuming so much liquid and food.
But the musicians had arrived, and he needed to be prepared should a request from his potentially betrothed’s family come.
Gesturing for Evie to precede him, he stepped into the hall to the sound of string instruments warming up.
Evie turned to him in surprise, and he wanted to lean down and lick her parted lips. Right, then. No more wine for him.
“You found musicians in a day?” she asked.
He shrugged and tried to make light of it. “I’m a duke.”
She snorted.
He snorted.
They both broke out in laughter there in the hall, pausing in place because they could not see to walk.
Finally, she sobered enough to say, “Shall we dance, then?”
He held his arm out for her and led her into the music room.
* * * *
As they waited for the musicians to finish tuning their instruments, he turned to Evie and gestured. “Take the cap off?”
She shrugged and quickly removed it, placing it on a narrow table by the door before unpinning her hair as well.
He gulped a swallow.
She asked, “What dances do you know?”
“A few country dances, and a reel.”
She tapped her lip with a finger. “Then you should learn the quadrille, perhaps the cotillion. And the newest dance, although not included at the more formal balls, is the waltz.”
“Why would certain dances be excluded?”
“The waltz has not been accepted by the society matrons. They consider it very risqué.” She widened her eyes in mock horror.
“Why?” he asked with a head tilt.
“I assume because the dance partners remain in one pair the whole dance, and they dance rather close.”
He grimaced. “Given that I don’t know it, that sounds somewhat dangerous to my partner.”
She chuckled. “If you can dance the livelier dances and weave between partners, you’ll be fine with the new dance.” Stepping toward him, she said, “Let us practice without music for a moment. This one follows three-quarter time and has a basic box step.”
He sidled closer, uncertain. His trousers went tight as his shaft showed no such uncertainty in wanting to brush against her.
She raised her right hand out at almost shoulder height. “There are several hand positions, but for now, we’ll start with one. Give me your hand here, with the other at the same height, bent elbow, hand near my shoulder.”
His brows rose, but he did as she said, his cock continuing to lengthen and harden in his trousers.
She sucked in a breath at the touch of his hand on her arm.
That touch—so close to a lady’s torso and possibly on skin depending on the length of her gloves—must be the reason the dance was deemed inappropriate for polite company.
As he stood, her skin warm under his hand through her dress and her small fingers wrapping around his other hand, he understood why.
Any closer and she’d feel his body’s reaction.
Her left hand came to his bent arm, and both their gazes followed it. Her hand appeared tiny against his sleeve. His biceps flexed in reaction to her touch, and he saw and felt her fingers clench in an infinitesimal squeeze as they dug into his hard muscle.
She shifted a half inch closer to set her feet in line with his and he nearly reared back, worried his cock might poke her.
Nodding to him, she seemed oblivious when she said, “Watch my feet and follow them with yours.”
Taking him through the basic waltz steps, she kept their “boxes” of steps all facing one direction for several counts. Then she showed him a basic quarter turn. After a few circles and squares, she stopped them and dropped her hands.
Cool air wafted over him. He blinked, missing her smiling face so near, her skin against his roughened hand, the hot brand of her other hand on his arm.
She said, “Generally, of course, you shall lead. However, I can lead the first few times if you’d prefer.”
“I’m willing to try. I might as well start as I mean to go on.”
She called to the musicians to play something in three-fourths time, keeping it slow. They nodded and conferred, then set their bows to their instruments.
Stepping back to him as the first notes rang out, she curtsied. He caught on quickly and bowed. She raised her arms.
He met her frame, relishing the return of the contact. Damn, he loved her hair, even scraped back into a severe knot. Stepping forward and into the dance, he tried to keep her gaze, only glancing down when he made the quarter turns to rotate them and move around the floor.
She smiled. “You’re doing so well, Rutland. You are a quick study in this, as with everything.”
His hand had a mind of its own and began to stray along her back, creating a subtle but inexorable draw toward him.
Feeling the knobs of her spine, he rubbed his first two fingers along them.
If only she was wearing a proper ballgown and not a simple maid’s dress.
Then he’d be able to caress her skin and pull her closer, proper frame be damned.
Her mouth opened on an inhale and her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. After a long moment, she admonished him, “Your hand should remain on my upper arm, your elbow out, so I can cling to your biceps…”
He thought she murmured, “…not that I can find purchase.”
However, the music prevented him from being sure.
Smiling, he lifted his arm. The scent of lemon verbena used in the cleaning products she worked with daily rose to his nostrils.
Her thick hair the color of oiled mahogany begged for him to rub his face along the shiny tresses, bury his nose in it, and wrap it around his fingers to tug on it.
She gasped.
Without conscious thought, he’d tightened their stance further, his hand now pressing into her back and his feet offset with hers.
Their hips brushed with each step, her skirts swaying against his legs when she followed him in a step.
When they turned, his cock rubbed along her, urging him to lower her to the floor.
“My lord, you are too close.”
“Blazes, I’m not close enough.” He halted, the music flowing around them. Stroking her gorgeous hair, he tilted her head and took advantage of her open-mouthed gaze. His lips met hers, his tongue plundering as he tugged her close enough that her breasts brushed his shirt.
The music screeched to an abrupt halt.
She remained silent.
He took it as assent, at least for more kisses.
Raising his head, he turned to the musicians. “Can you return tomorrow evening?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
“Thank you. Rogers will see you out.” Not releasing her hand, he tugged her out of the room and down the hall to the library.
Closing and locking the door, he assessed her expression. “Now, where were we?”
“Dancing?”
“No, no, I distinctly recall a different activity. Perhaps I must spark your memory.” He leaned against the door, drawing her between his legs with a gentle hand, giving her every opportunity to withdraw or protest. At her acquiescence, his heart soared.
He wanted this girl. It had nothing to do with his recent abstinence, her warmth against him, or the dancing, although that last might have precipitated this moment.
Her intellect, her willingness to help him, and her beautiful silky hair were what drew him.
He inclined his head, and she met him halfway.
Exploring the wet heat of her mouth, the rough edges of her teeth, and the answering thrust of her tongue made him growl.
One hand fisted in her hair, holding her to him.
The other stroked her back, retracing the bumps of her spine and the muscles running alongside, then her side, edging closer to her bust.
She arched against him, her hands clinging to his upper arms, fingers flexing and straightening against him.
His hips thrust an inch involuntarily as he imagined that motion against his cock.
He slowly traced a blunt fingernail along the modest neckline of her dress, signaling where he planned to go next.
Her reactions to date had told him she was more innocent than any maid—hell, any woman—he’d met in his previous life.
Loosening his hold on her chignon without releasing it, he softened his kiss and trailed his hand down from her décolletage to cup her breast.
Gasping into his mouth, she tore her lips away to gape at him, chest heaving against his hand.