Chapter 5
Oliver always danced with dispassion, or at least he usually did, but with Lady Phoebe Ripton, member of the Briarwood family, in his arms, it was incredibly difficult to be dispassionate.
He was not a dispassionate man.
He did have quite an affection for living, carnal desires, and being an excellent duke, but he had a distance from it all. Yet it was almost impossible to have a distance from her.
Of course, they danced with several inches betwixt them.
Their bodies did not touch, except for where his one hand grazed just under her shoulder blade, and his other had taken up her opposite hand.
She held her skirts out so that the fabric floated about them, wing-like, as they skimmed across the floor.
And that light touch of his hand at her back, and her fingers in his palm? Despite their innocence, with her it felt like sin, like he was crossing over some unseen line where she and he were one, and hang everyone else.
It was terrifying, that feeling pouring through him, because he could swear he saw it in her eyes too, coursing through her.
Despite the deep desire to sweep her closer, to feel her body arched against his, to give into the passion that he controlled so fiercely, he led her about the room perfunctorily.
It was the only thing he could do, though he found himself, for the first time in years, wishing that he danced differently, wishing that he could charm a young lady with a dance as well as he could with words.
But he could not allow such a gate to open. He had shut it far too long ago to risk it. If he did, he feared everything he had contained would flood out, and all would be ruined.
Dancing was merely a tool. That was all. Nothing more could or should come from it than the exchange of the sort of information that kept the ton turning.
The moment he had entered the ballroom this night, he had caught sight of Lady Phoebe across the floor. In a crowd, she had stood out like Venus amongst the heavens.
Their eyes had met, it had stolen his breath, his thoughts and, well, his reason. Reason was something he prized above all things. Reason kept him in line. Safe. Behaving as a proper duke ought and not some mad dance troop rapscallion.
It had been all he could do to tear his gaze away from her and immediately weave his way through the crowd. But he had. Besides, he had a promise to keep. He had promised her brother, Laertes, that he would make merry and be polite and at least pretend to like Christmas.
It certainly had not occurred to him that she would go after him. It should have. The Briarwoods were odd. He knew this better than anyone. He and Laertes had been rather close at Eton, and he had been friends with him throughout the years afterwards.
He was more than familiar with the antics of many a Briarwood. He’d need to find Hartigan Mulvaney and demand immediate training, for he still felt, in this particular moment, that he had no idea what was coming next. Especially from Laertes.
At present, Laertes stood beside the dance floor, arms across his immaculately tailored chest, dark hair falling waves about his chiseled face.
Oliver’s friend looked like he was either going to collapse or strangle someone.
“Why does your brother look as if he’s about to suffer a fit of apoplexy?” he blurted. “I’m being polite. I’m not doing anything I shouldn’t. I even asked him if I could dance with you.”
She rolled her eyes and tilted her head back, which caused the beautiful green silk ribbons and sprig of holly in her hair to gleam in the candlelight. “Yes, that was very irritating. But if you must know, no doubt, he’s terrified that I’m going to ask you to marry me.”
“What?” he exclaimed, unable to stop the startled note of surprise from piping out of his throat. The sound was mixed with a strange hint of appreciation, perhaps even anticipation. Because the idea of marrying Lady Phoebe Ripton was really not so very bad.
My God, it wasn’t bad at all, except he was not here for a bride. He was here to make it through Christmas with the Briarwoods, and he would. But maybe… Maybe she’d be his reward for making it through.
She looked like a delectable reward. One who would delight a man for a lifetime.
He couldn’t stop himself from contemplating her rosy lips and the way they curved mischievously. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, and that color only set his blood ablaze, for he’d like to turn her cheeks pink for more reasons than a warm ballroom and the thrill of a dance.
She grinned at him, clearly bemused by his response. “Never you fear, Your Grace. You needn’t look so frightened.”
“I’m not frightened,” he corrected. He was anything but.
“Good, I’m glad to hear you are made of stern stuff. Besides, I would never do that.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, circling them, avoiding other couples as they gracefully made their way about, a strong contrast to his rigid stepping.
She pursed her lips. “At least not today.”
“Lady Phoebe,” he growled, loving her forward nature. She was a wit, cheeky, and the sort of woman who would make him eager for bed each night. “You are something else.”
“Indeed I am,” she agreed without apology. “Now, what the devil are you doing here, Your Grace? Surely, you have estates of your own?”
His ardor dimmed. It wasn’t the sort of question he was eager for. And it was rude. Though, at this point, he shouldn’t be surprised by anything she had to say. And yet he was. Young misses in their first Seasons didn’t ask dukes such probing questions.
“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “Is this to be a night of complete and utter shocks?” he asked, trying his best not to stumble, for he did not enjoy the idea of having to explain that his estate did not need him at Christmas. That he did not want to be there.
He should not have to explain, nor should she question. He was, after all, the Duke of Crestfield.
He should not be undone by a lady who had only had one Season.
She pursed those delicious lips. “Forgive me in return. I did not mean to offend you. I think in this house, we are always as honest as possible. Briarwoods like to ask interesting questions.”
“It is not an interesting question,” he returned. “It is a rude question.”
“Oh dear. I should hate to be thought of as rude.” Her brow furrowed and she dared to ask, “But don’t you think it a bit odd?”
“What?” he asked, his desire dimming, replaced by the urge to grit his teeth. Perhaps she was as infuriating as she was desirable. For she was not shying away from her line of thought.
“Well,” she began, “the fact that you are here and not at your estates? It is odd. Though some of our family that are dukes can’t resist my uncle’s Christmas parties. I will say, I think you’ve made an excellent decision. This house is truly wonderful, but surely a duke usually must…”
Her voice died at what must have been his suddenly grim visage.
But she was asking rather frustrating questions.
He looked at her, his gaze lowering, and said, “Your brother invited me. I didn’t want to come. I lost a wager, and now here I am.”
Her brow furrowed. “Oh my,” she said, her eyes widening with disbelief. “You don’t wish to be here?”
He sighed. “No.”
She tsked, the sound barely audible over the delightful notes of the orchestra and its romantic strings soaring over the dancers. “Worse and worse.”
No, he thought to himself, what was worse was the fact that he was actually telling her these things!
How?
How was it possible that he was spilling such things to her? He was going to have to tell Laertes that he had done it. For surely it violated part of the wager. And he was never one to do such a thing.
He fought a groan. Perhaps it was merely a technicality, and he didn’t wish his hosts, who he personally knew to be excellent people, to know that he desperately wished to be elsewhere.
He arched a brow. “Promise me that you won’t tell anyone what I’ve said,” he said, suddenly dismayingly desperate not to have given himself so entirely away in his first few minutes here.
But the truth was he felt quite unsteady.
It was a very unfamiliar sensation. Some of it was her and his intense attraction.
But that wasn’t really it. He knew it. And he didn’t want to admit it.
All his life, he had felt quite steady, quite in control. But here in this house with so many people celebrating Christmas, and with her in his arms, he felt, well, completely flummoxed and far too close to being vulnerable for his own liking.
He did indeed need to get together with Hartigan Mulvaney and learn a few lessons so that he could at least anticipate the blows ahead.
“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” she said quite kindly. “But why wouldn’t you want to come? Our parties are magnificent.”
He scowled at her. He couldn’t help himself. He did like parties. But not Christmas parties. Occasionally, they made him feel sick, depending on the year, and depending on the intensity of the day.
“Oh dear, now that is a look,” she mused.
“It’s not for you,” he said.
“Well then what is it for?”
“Christmas,” he said honestly.
Her jaw dropped quite indelicately. “Christmas,” she echoed. “How could that look possibly be for Christmas?”
He narrowed his eyes and looked away.
“Wait, you don’t have to tell me,” she rushed.
A muscle tightened in his jaw. He felt at odds with how much he liked her, but also hating the sudden subject of their conversation. Though it was Christmas, so it wasn’t surprising and not her fault. “I know that I don’t.”
“But you want to,” she said, her voice an assuring lilt that she was an excellent confidante. “Clearly, you do.”
“I do not,” he growled.
She stared at him, then shrugged her delicate shoulders, which only emphasized her pale gown that skimmed her breasts, plumping them in the most inviting way. The pearls at her neck dripped towards those breasts, and when she shrugged, the pearls teased her skin.
Oh, to be one of those pearls.