Chapter 8
I n all his life, he’d never been so entirely focused as he was on one particular person. Miss Portia Miller did things to him that caused his entire world to spin. His father would’ve told him to run from that. One needed to be in control at all times. But it was her very ability to cause his world to spin that he liked.
He didn’t want a meek woman who would do his bidding to run his dukedom. No, he wanted a woman who everyone would like, who people would flock to, who would increase his power. Yes, she was the perfect foil for him. He did not wish to speak when in company. She seemed like the perfect person to speak for him.
Already people were flocking to her. Perhaps people had not noticed that he was striding towards her. She certainly had. But her grandmother and mother were standing beside her, as well as her uncle and father, at least he assumed it was her father from the way that he was standing protectively behind her. There were also several other young ladies nearby who were not, he felt certain, family.
The young ladies had descended instantaneously and wrapped about Miss Miller, engaged in what he could only assume was rather frivolous conversation as he neared them.
Still, he was pleased.
He’d picked well. She might not be the Diamond of the Season, but she was the focus of it. And she was handling it with great effect because, somehow, she was looking at him and yet still making everyone around her smile and laugh.
This sort of affability was a trait that he’d never mastered and likely never would because it was not a trait that his father had admired.
It was not one of the traits that had been beaten into him. As a matter of fact, anything similar to affability had been beaten out of him, which was why he needed her. He was tired of having people come to his house to win his approval, without having any sort of passion, enthusiasm, or joy.
No, he needed someone who would fill his house to the brim, win him allies, and convince people that his view of the world was the way it should be.
So, as he slowly crossed to her and the room about him began to part, making way for him as it always did, he neared Miss Miller feeling more and more confident. And when he stopped before her and the young ladies who were chattering away suddenly stepped back and caught sight of him, many of them unable to speak in his presence—a condition he was accustomed to—he felt another wave of pleasure.
They would be a formidable couple.
He squared his jaw, looked down his nose, for he was considerably taller than her, and said, “Are you ready to dance, Miss Miller?”
Her grandmother and mother stared at him, then at her.
He knew this was a rather important moment. The Briarwoods cared about each other’s opinions. Upon reflection, he liked that too. It was good to have a family that supported each other. He was already making a plan to win them over, though that would be the hardest thing he’d done in years.
She cocked her head to the side. “I am almost ready to dance, Your Grace. Are you asking me?”
He couldn’t help himself. A slow smile tilted his lips. He was not a good conversationalist at balls. He did not enjoy it. He’d never been required to be a good conversationalist at balls. Again, his father had not deemed it important. Why should he lower himself to speak with people who were really rather unimportant?
But his father had not felt uneasy in company. Not like he did.
“I am indeed asking you to dance,” he replied. “When do you think you shall be ready?”
Her gaze sparked. “Well, I have a question for you, Your Grace, if you don’t mind?”
The young ladies about them watched agog, tittering to each other behind their fans.
“Do ask it,” he said. “I confess I am on pins and needles waiting for it.”
“Whom have you spoken to this evening?”
He hesitated. “I beg your pardon?”
“Whom have you spoken to this evening? What interesting things have you heard?”
“Are you asking me to gossip, Miss Miller?” he drawled, feeling unsettled.
The crowd about them was watching as if they were engaged in a game. It wasn’t a game, he realized. She had noticed what some might consider a flaw in his character and was trying to understand it. This was her attempt to draw him out in company.
His insides tightened at that. This was a surprise. He liked her boldness, but he had not expected this. Not in front of others. “I have not spoken with anyone yet this evening except our host and hostess.”
“May I ask why?”
He ground his teeth because he could not say the truth. That would be quite awkward. Did she want awkwardness? Perhaps she did.
“You may ask,” he replied, “but I shall not tell you until you are on the floor dancing with me.”
Her brows rose. “I am intrigued,” she replied.
The young ladies were watching with amazement. Their mamas were coming close, being pulled in, clearly wanting to know what had caused a duke to be so fascinated. He needed to escape before he was mobbed by them. The last thing he wished was for a dozen hopeful mamas to start fluttering at him.
So, he thrust his hand out at Miss Miller. “Does that satisfy your curiosity enough?” he asked, beginning to feel brittle, longing to escape the sudden crush. Feeling that deep unease he felt under his father’s watchful eye when in company, waiting for his censure in private after he had made a mistake. “Will you dance?”
Her gaze softened as she studied him, as if she could sense his sudden difficulty. “Of course, Your Grace. How could I not?”
Thankfully, she placed her gloved hand into his.
A relieved breath, one he had not even realized he had been holding, slipped past his lips. As he drew her onto the floor with him, leaving a clutch of young ladies to squawk and flutter, he tried to still his racing mind and the old feelings coming upon him.
It was why he longed to leave ballrooms and be on his own, why he could barely converse. For over the years, he had feared his father’s punishments for being less than perfect. For being anything his father did not wish him to be. Even now, his body remembered. Even now, it still haunted his thoughts.
“That was most interesting,” he said.
“Was it?” she asked.
“Yes, because I think you already knew my answer when you asked who I had spoken to this evening.”
She considered this, tilting her head back, which sent her rich russet curls teasing the line of her elegant throat. A throat he longed to kiss. “I am no mystic reader of thoughts.”
“Glad to hear it,” he managed, still trying to get a hold of himself and finding that her hand in his was doing wonders. “I’m glad to hear we won’t be attempting to contact spirits for entertainment.”
“Oh dear, no,” she assured, slightly horrified. “People are wonderful magicians, but I don’t think that such things should be entertainment.”
“I’m glad to know that also,” he said. “But the truth is I don’t speak to people because—”
She stared at him, then blurted, “You’re shy.”
“What?” he blurted in return as the orchestra began to play the first notes of a waltz.
They stared at each other a moment, both stunned by each other’s transparency.
“You are, aren’t you? Everyone thinks that you must be tremendously cold, distant, or superior. You’re not at all. You’re shy .”
“Saying things several times does not make it true,” he countered.
She did not yield but continued her argument. “You’re confident. You’re strong. You’re desperately powerful,” she murmured, “in a way that makes me catch my breath.”
“I’m glad to know that I can make you catch your breath,” he said as he swayed them to the music.
She licked her lower lip—that soft, full lower lip that begged to be kissed. “Oh, yes. The way you speak to me… It sets my heart beating apace. But you genuinely don’t like talking to other people, do you? For fun, that is.”
“No,” he replied. “It is not something my father encouraged.”
“Why?” she asked as the music lilted, the tune encouraging him to circle her about the floor.
“Because everyone is beneath me,” he said.
Her jaw dropped at that. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know,” he began, pained, “you’re half American, and therefore you believe in the principles of democracy and republicanism, but this is not a democracy or a republic. It’s a constitutional monarchy,” he said. “And the powerful people here make the decisions. And I’m powerful. Everyone else technically is beneath me, aside from the king and the queen and a few others like your uncle.”
“And that makes you unable to talk to other people?” she bit out. “Truly?”
Was her esteem for him plunging? Perhaps it should. But he could not tell her about the little boy who had cried alone, about the tutor and his stick, about his father’s terrifying voice, about being a perpetual disappointment.
About protecting everyone he met, lest his father hurt them for being kind to his son.
“You don’t truly want to know why I’m not able to talk to other people,” he said.
He had tried to speak to people his father had deemed beneath him. It had always ended badly. Very badly indeed. And so, he had stopped, and he’d never been able to start again without the old terror rising in his flesh and racing to his heart.
So now, when he was in the company of strangers, no matter how much he wished to, he could not speak to them. He did not cower, that was not the right word, but he could not bring himself to converse. With Miss Miller, he could. She was essentially his equal in many ways. At least as equal as a lady could be. Yes, she was his equal in family line, and therefore he did not have to hold himself back. And he would not hold himself back. Except for his memories.
No one needed to know those. Not even his little sister, Margery. He’d protected her as best he could. And he’d protect Miss Miller from the ghost of his father as well.
Her brows drew together. “You are quite a mystery, Your Grace, for with me, you are a wonder.”
“Thank you,” he said. He found himself growing ever more certain that he had picked well, that she was exactly what he needed. But more so… Their passion, their growing mutual regard? It was a bonus he had not expected. One he intended to increase. “You find me to be a wonder, do you?” he prompted as he easily maneuvered them through the couples. He did not like to talk, but he did like to dance. And he had always been good at it.
“Indeed.”
“And what is the wonder?”
“The sound of your voice, the way it growls,” she began, her voice breathy to his ears. “The width of your shoulders. Your turns of phrase. And the way you make me feel.”
“And how exactly is it that I make you feel, Miss Miller?”
“As if life is full of possibilities.” Her eyes lit with emotion. “As if I don’t know what’s coming next.”
He pulled her ever so slightly closer, leaned down, and whispered, “Oh, Portia, no one knows what’s coming next. Not me. Not you.”
But this, he did know. She was going to be his. And she’d be exactly the duchess he required.