Chapter 4
Dance? Margaret’s heart kicked against her ribs. The Duke of Dashfield—this man who’d just confessed to conversing with deaf women and having strong opinions about aspic—had asked her to call him Henry and dance.
And she’d said yes.
Oh the scandal! What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been. That was the problem. She’d been feeling. Laughing. Actually enjoying herself for the first time in months or more. And now she’d agreed to something that would put her on display in front of everyone.
A widow. Dancing. With a duke.
The gossips would have a field day.
But when she looked at him—really looked at him—she found herself not caring quite as much as she should.
His face struck her in a way it absolutely shouldn’t. Strong jaw. Pale blue eyes that held hers a beat too long. Dark hair that looked as if he’d dragged his fingers through it more than once this evening, leaving it charmingly disheveled.
And his body. Tall. Lean. Every line of him radiating barely-contained tension despite the perfectly tailored evening clothes.
Control yourself, Maggie. You’re a widow. Act like one.
Except she’d been acting like a widow for three years now, and she was exhausted. And this man—this nervous, rambling, unexpectedly kind man—made her want to stop pretending. Just for an hour. Just for one dance.
“Shall we?” The duke offered his hand.
Margaret stared at his long fingers. No rings except a signet on his smallest finger that looked too large, as if it had belonged to someone else first.
As soon as she placed her hand in his, heat shot up her arm. His fingers closed around hers and he drew her to her feet with grace.
“I should warn you,” he murmured as he led her toward the ballroom, “I wasn’t exaggerating about my dancing skills. Or lack thereof.”
“How bad are we talking?” Margaret asked, acutely aware that his hand was still holding hers. Warm. Steady. “Will I need some ice for my toes?”
“Possibly. Also your dignity. I may step on your hem. I will definitely confuse the steps at some point.”
“That’s very specific.”
“I’ve had time to imagine all the ways this could go wrong since I’ve taken lessons for the past four weeks.” He glanced down at her, something vulnerable in his expression. “Are you sure you want to risk it?”
“Absolutely not. But I’m doing it anyway.”
His mouth curved. “Reckless.”
“Apparently.”
They entered the ballroom, and Margaret’s breath caught. She’d forgotten how beautiful it was. Chandeliers dripping with crystals. Walls lined with gilt mirrors that multiplied the candlelight into something golden and warm.
And people. So many people. All turning to look at them.
At her.
Margaret’s steps faltered.
“Second thoughts?” the duke asked quietly.
“Seventh or eighth thoughts, actually.”
“We could leave. Pretend I developed a sudden headache. I can manage very convincing cringing. I’ve been practicing.”
Despite her nerves, she laughed. “You’ve been practicing cringing?”
“A duke must be prepared for all social emergencies.”
“Is that in the handbook?”
“There’s no handbook. That’s the problem.
” He drew her closer—not improper, just…
near enough that she could smell the now more familiar sandalwood and something masculine that made her want to lean in.
“But if there were, I imagine it would include instructions for rescuing ladies from dances they’re dreading. ”
“I’m not dreading it.”
“You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”
“I look like a widow who’s about to be judged by every matron in this room for daring to appear happy.”
His expression darkened. “Then let them judge. You deserve to be happy.”
The words hit her square in the chest. No one had said that to her. Never. Not in all the months of grief-acting and pity-accepting and performing appropriate widowhood.
You deserve to be happy.
Her throat tightened. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“Perhaps not. But I know enough to see you’ve been carrying something heavy. And I think you deserve to set it down. Even if it’s just for one dance.”
The musicians began the opening notes of a waltz and the duke’s hand found her waist.
Margaret stopped breathing.
His other hand held hers, raised to the proper position. She could only focus on the warmth of his palm against her ribs. The slight pressure of his fingers. The way he looked at her—not with pity, not with judgment, but with something that looked like anticipation.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Not even remotely.”
“Perfect. Neither am I.”
And then they were moving.
For about four steps, it was fine. Almost graceful, even. Then the duke’s foot caught hers.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s fine—”
He stepped on her hem.
“Apologies—”
She stumbled. He caught her. Which would have been romantic, except he overcorrected and they both nearly toppled sideways.
“I warned you,” he said, looking mortified.
Margaret bit her lip, trying desperately not to laugh and failing spectacularly.
“This is a disaster,” he said.
“This is wonderful.” She chuckled.
He blinked. “I’m serious.”
But so was she. Because despite the fumbling and the near-collisions and the fact that they were definitely not following the proper steps, she was smiling. Actually smiling. The kind that hurt her cheeks because she’d forgotten what real joy felt like.
“When’s the last time you did something you were absolutely terrible at?” she asked.
“This morning. Tried to tie my own cravat.”
“How did that go?”
“My valet wept.”
She laughed again. Louder this time. She didn’t care who heard. “The trick is to stop trying so hard. You’re thinking about the steps instead of just… moving.”
“Moving implies coordination.”
“Moving implies trust.” She shifted closer, adjusting their position. “Stop trying to lead perfectly. Just hold on to me, and we’ll figure it out together.”
His eyes met hers, and something passed between them—understanding, maybe, or recognition. The acknowledgment that neither of them knew what they were doing, in dancing or in life, but they were willing to try.
“Together,” he repeated softly.
“Together.”
His hand tightened at her waist. She felt the shift in him—the moment he stopped overthinking and just… moved.
And suddenly, impossibly, they were dancing.
Not well. Not even adequately by any technical standard, but they were moving together, finding a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the way their bodies fit. His hand guided her without forcing. She anticipated his movements half a second before he made them.
“We’re doing it,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Don’t jinx it.”
“Too late. I’m definitely jinxing it.”
But he didn’t. They kept dancing. Turning. Spinning beneath the chandeliers while the music swelled around them.
Margaret’s pulse raced. Not from exertion, but from proximity and the way he gazed at her.
Like she was the only person in the room.
Like the rest of the world had faded away and there was only this—his hand at her waist, her fingers curled around his, the space between them shrinking with every turn.
“You’re good at this,” she breathed.
“I’m following you.”
“Then I’m good at this.”
“You are.” His voice had gone rough. “You’re remarkable.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll believe you.”
“Good. Believe me.” His thumb traced a small circle against her ribs. Just once. Just enough to make her gasp. “I meant every word at dinner, the truth thing. I want to know you. The real you. Not the widow everyone expects you to be.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then tell me. Make me understand.”
The music shifted. Slowed. They should have stepped apart and maintained proper distance.
Neither of them moved.
No more lies.
“I’m not who they think I am,” she said quietly.
“The devoted widow. The grieving girl. I barely knew my husband. Three conversations formed our entire marriage before he left.” The words came out in a rush.
Relief and shame tangled together. “So no, I’m not heartbroken.
I’m just… tired. Of pretending. Of performing. Of being what everyone needs me to be.”
His hand flexed against her waist. “Then stop.”
“I can’t—”
“Just for tonight.” He pulled her closer, definitely too close for propriety. She felt the heat of him through her dress. “Just for this dance. Be Margaret. Not Lady Margaret. Not the widow. Just you.”
Something cracked open in her chest. “I don’t know how.”
It was all too new, like a chapter she’d skipped between her hasty vows and widowhood. She should have had a marriage, a relationship… but there had been no time.
“Start with this.” His eyes held hers with warmth and impossible kindness. “Are you happy right now? In this moment?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then that’s enough.”
The music ended.
Neither of them stopped moving.
Around them, couples began to separate. To bow and curtsy and return to their positions along the walls.
Margaret and the duke stood in the center of the floor, still holding each other, both breathing harder than the dance warranted.
“We should—” She couldn’t finish the thought.
“We should,” he agreed, but he didn’t let go.
“People are staring.”
“Let them.”
“Your Grace—”
“Henry.” His voice rumbled low. Fierce. “When we’re like this—when it’s just us—call me Henry.”
“Henry,” she whispered.
His eyes darkened. “Again.”
“Henry.”
For one wild, reckless moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Right there. In the middle of the ballroom. In front of everyone.
Instead, he stepped back. Released her slowly, as if it cost him something. “Thank you,” he said formally, “for the dance.”
“Thank you for the stunned goose impression.”
His mouth twitched. “It was convincing?”
“Devastatingly convincing. I feared for my toes.”
“As you should have.” He bowed. Proper. Correct. Everything a duke should be.
But when he straightened, his eyes were anything but proper. They were hungry. And Margaret realized, with a thrill that was equal parts terror and exhilaration, that she was starving too.
“I should—” She gestured vaguely toward the crowd. Toward propriety. Toward safety.
“You should,” he agreed. But he didn’t move or look away.
The air between them felt charged. Dangerous.
She should walk away. Return her thoughts to the ballroom. Remember all the reasons why a widow and a duke sharing heated looks was a terrible idea. But she didn’t move.
“Margaret—”
“Your Grace.” Lady Pemberton appeared beside them, her smile bright and predatory. “How delightful to see you enjoying yourself. Lady Margaret, your dancing was lovely. Though perhaps you should rest now. Widows mustn’t overexert themselves.”
The spell shattered.
Margaret’s cheeks burned, the implicit rebuke clear: widows shouldn’t dance with hungry eyes and flushed cheeks.
“Of course,” she murmured. “You’re quite right.”
She fled to the orangery, where the air was thick and sweet and no one would remind her what widows were supposed to do.