Chapter 3 #2
There was the faintest curve to his lips. Amusement flickered there—as though he saw through her poise, understood that she would not feign coyness, and found her defiance charming.
Emma held his gaze, letting the silence stretch until it shimmered between them like a taut ribbon. She could deny him—watch that charming smile flicker, just slightly, and perhaps silence the gossip that had been so carefully cultivated.
But she had sown those rumors herself.
And far more dangerously… she did not want to refuse him.
She inclined her head with practiced poise. “Of course, Your Grace. The honor is all mine.”
She slipped her fingers into his—warm, familiar, utterly assured—and let him guide her onto the dance floor. Around them, the orchestra struck up. Emma felt the weight of every watching eye—but none of it seemed to matter.
Not when his hand settled at the small of her back.
That single point of contact might as well have been a brand, sending heat spiraling through her corseted frame.
His other hand clasped hers in a hold that was neither loose nor indecent, but suggested, quite boldly, that she belonged precisely where he had placed her. He drew her closer and she gasped.
A breathless inch of space separated them.
The music soared, and without warning, they moved.
The Duke glided with the grace of a man born to command ballrooms and battlefields alike—fluid, effortless, maddeningly composed.
Emma, in contrast, felt every inch the mere mortal beside him.
Her feet, ordinarily so nimble, now seemed reluctant participants.
But by some miracle—or sheer force of will—she did not falter.
The room spun by in a glittering blur, all chandeliers and jewels and fluttering fans, but none of it touched her. The sweeping strains of the waltz lifted them into a world all their own, suspended in a silken bubble where only they existed.
“You dance well,” the Duke intoned, his breath brushing her ear like the ghost of a kiss.
Emma ducked her head coyly. “As do you, Your Grace.”
A beat passed. Then, his voice dropped lower. “—Given that I was made to understand you rarely danced.”
Emma’s gaze shot up to meet his.
Whom have you been talking to form that opinion? I have tried my hardest not to be noticed by anyone.
“Is that so…?” Emma replied coolly. “I am not sure where you have taken your information, but I am pleased to say, you have been misinformed.”
“Mm.” The sound was noncommittal. “It has also been observed that you seem to avoid courtship rather… actively. Which is curious.”
Emma lifted her chin. “Curious how, Your Grace?”
“Curious—” he snarled abruptly, gaze sharpening like a blade catching light, “because women in your position tend to be surrounded by prospects. But curiously, you are not.”
The ill-conceived compliment landed like a match in dry straw. She opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed on.
“And curious-er still,” he drew her closer, visage contorting from a barbarian prince to barbarian tyrant, “is how the very idea of you being courted—by me, no less—has made such quick work of the local gossip circuit.”
Each word landed with the precision of an arrow.
It suddenly became quite clear to Emma why he had earned such a formidable reputation.
Without the hint of a warning, he spun her, a fluid motion that left her head reeling.
Before she could regain her balance, he slammed her into the hard wall of his chest.
A faint tremor passed through her, though she did not let it reach her face. “Do I take you put stock in idle gossip, Your Grace?”
He smiled, but it no longer reached his eyes. “Not often. But I am more inclined to listen when the story spreads with such vehemence—almost as though encouraged.”
The implication was unmistakable. Emma’s stomach twisted, though her expression remained carefully neutral.
“I have spread no rumors if that is what you mean to say, Your Grace,” she defended, each word deliberate. Another technical truth. It was Elsie who had done the spreading. “And I do not concern myself with what others choose to say. If there are whispers, they began without me.”
And yet, she could feel the heat rising at the nape of her neck—because she had wanted the whispers. Just not like this.
He studied her then—not idly, not like a man indulging curiosity, but with the clinical focus of someone trained to find fault in steel.
“Then allow me to regale you, Lady Emmeline,” he said at last, voice dark with purpose. “You and I have been romantically linked in London’s more… enterprising gossip sheets. It would appear we are secretly in a passionate affair. With such secrecy, that even I had not been made aware.
“If I were, in fact, pursuing a courtship, such talk might be inconvenient. As it stands, I am not. But my name, Lady Emmeline Montrose, is not a toy to be passed around for amusement—or gain. Not without consequences.”
Emma saw the fury ignite in his visage and experienced a delicious thrill of fear. It was delicious because her entire body reverberated at his proximity.
“Consequences, Your Grace?” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “That sounds very much like a threat.”
He tilted his head ever so slightly, not unlike a predator observing its prey.
“I would not be so crass as to threaten a woman,” the Duke returned curtly, “but I do believe in consequences. Whether said consequences align with your original intentions… remains to be seen.”
Emma’s back stiffened. “Pardon?”
Whatever did he mean by such a cryptic remark?
Before she could prod further, the dance concluded, and the Duke bowed, precisely and without flourish. She curtsied awkwardly in response.
Then he offered his arm.
She took it feebly, and he led her across the room to where her father stood, a glass of claret in hand.
“Montrose,” the Duke greeted sternly.
“Your Grace!” Duncan exclaimed, the glass swishing to the brim as he spun to regard the pair.
Around them, the room began to stir once more. Instruments tuned for the second dance, the crowd swelled like a tide. Musicians changed sheets, partners exchanged places. As guests flitted back to the middle of the floor, the Duke, Emma, and Duncan were left in a private space.
And the Duke did not wait for ceremony.
“I have something to share,” he said, voice grave. “Until now, we have kept it close, but the time has come for it to be known.”
Duncan blinked, his gaze shifting uncertainly between the pair. “Yes… of course, Your Grace. Please, do tell.”
The Duke twisted, just slightly, toward Emma. His hand still rested atop hers where it lay on his bicep—possessive without pressure.
“As you must have read in the papers, for the past months, your daughter has held my heart in her keeping. Today, I am pleased to announce, I intend to finally take her as my wife.”