Chapter 5
Chapter Five
T he ball was a triumph. The ballroom had been transformed, bedecked with beautiful lights. Ladies and lords swirled in the center of the floor, draped in rich fabrics and dancing along to the string quartet Lady Sheridan had hired. As Ian walked down the steps, he noted several others standing around the corners of the ballroom, engaged in conversation—many of them gossiping, no doubt. He continued to scan the room, until his eyes lit upon a fair-haired woman in a pale green gown.
When she turned around, his breath caught in his throat.
In the sparkling candlelight that filled the ballroom, Lady Cecilia was dazzling. The lights seemed almost to catch in her hair and in her eyes, the latter of which was brought out handsomely by the green of her gown. The gown was made of a soft fabric which curled against her as she moved, highlighting the curves of her body. As Ian took her in, he could not help but think she would look better with nothing on at all.
It was impossible to look away from her as she approached him, her brother and mother by her side.
“Harwick! Good of you to make it,” Zachary greeted him.
“Of course. I could hardly have missed it.” He bowed to the ladies and received a curtsy in return. “Am I very late?”
“Not at all,” Cecilia said. “I assure you, Your Grace, your presence was not at all missed.”
“Lady Cecilia,” he replied, bowing. “I appreciate the assurance.”
As her gaze caught his, there was something in her eyes that touched him deeper still. Had she noticed the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her? Could she somehow read his thoughts? It was impossible, he knew, though the piercing green of her gaze gave him his doubts.
He cleared his throat, forcing himself to pull his eyes from hers so that he could greet the approaching Lady Sheridan with another bow, as well as her daughter. “Miss Banfield. You ladies both look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Nancy said, coming up from her curtsy to shyly look over at Zachary. “And Lord Lindbury.”
“Miss Banfield,” Zachary replied. For all his protestations that he viewed Miss Banfield as nothing more but a pretty diversion, Ian noted the light flush that came to his cheeks, almost matching Miss Banfield’s blush. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me for a dance?”
Nancy fairly glowed as she nodded. “The honor would be mine,” she said softly, accepting the elbow that Zachary offered, and going with him to the floor as the string quartet prepared to begin a waltz, leaving Ian and Cecilia alone.
The duke cleared his throat to break the silence. “Lady Cecilia?—”
“I must go,” she said, interrupting him. “Lord Wetherbury asked me to dance with him, earlier—I ought to find him before the dancing begins.”
“I should think it is his responsibility to find you, no?” the duke asked, smiling wryly. “It is unseemly for a lady to be forced to chase a gentleman down.”
“Yes, of course. You are, after all, an expert in unseemly matters, are you not, Your Grace?” she snapped back. “I thank you for your concern, and bid you a good night.”
Ian could not help but watch her as she left.
Finding Lord Wetherbury had been no trouble at all, though Cecilia was rather beginning to wish she had not bothered.
“My apologies, my lady,” he stammered out, for what must have been the fifth time. “I do not know what has come over me, to leave me so wrong-footed.”
Cecilia forced a smile. “It is quite all right, my lord,” she said, though she gritted her teeth at the pain in her foot. “I am by no means the most graceful dancer myself.”
This was true. Although, she thought, at least she had never stepped on her partner’s feet—particularly not as many times and with as much force as Lord Wetherbury had throughout their waltz. When the dance finally ended, it was a great relief. She curtsied, then tried to make it as far from the dance floor as possible. To her delight, Nancy and Zachary were still engaged in conversation on the other side of the room.
No doubt he will ask her to dance again, she thought, immensely pleased.
“Lady Cecilia.”
She looked up. Immediately she could not keep the scowl from her face. “Ah. You again.”
“Dance with me,” he said suddenly. There was something new in his tone; an urgency she had not yet heard. Then he cleared his throat. “Now that you have fulfilled your obligations to the previous gentleman who asked, I imagine you are available for the next dance.”
Cecilia was taken aback. “It is…very kind of you to ask, Your Grace. But I am afraid I must decline.”
“Are you looking for Lord Wetherbury again? Do not tell me you are so eager to sacrifice a foot. Of course, if you refuse to dance with me, I shall have no choice but to find another partner myself.”
“A most welcome proposition,” she said coolly.
“I see.” He nodded. “Then surely you would not mind at all if I were to go to Miss Banfield and ask her for a dance or two.”
She gave him a fake smile. “I am afraid Miss Banfield is quite occupied at the moment. Speaking with my brother, in fact.”
“You are mistaken, Lady Cecilia.” Cecilia looked over immediately, and found that indeed, Nancy was now standing alone. “Your brother has gone—to fetch her some lemonade, no doubt—which, though chivalrous an action it may be, has left your friend quite open for another gentleman to make an entrance.” He studied her face. When she did not give him any further reaction, he shrugged, and gave her a bow, before making to leave. “Very well. If you’ll excuse me, then?—”
“Wait!” Cecilia stepped in front of him, brows furrowed, then let out a strained exhale. “Very well. One dance, Your Grace. But only this once.”
“One dance would be plenty.” He offered her his elbow, noting how she squeezed it much more forcefully than needed, though he chose not to comment on it. As he led her to the floor, she released her grip on his elbow, allowing him to circle around in front of her. Stiffly, she placed her hand on his shoulder, leaving nearly a full person’s worth of space between them.
He placed a hand on her waist, and pressed gently; without resistance, she took a half step in, looking up at him.
The music began. The duke was an excellent dancer, at least, loath as Cecilia was to pay him any compliment. Instead of commenting upon this fact, she merely quipped, “You do realize that blackmail is not considered the most proper way to ask a lady to dance? Some might even go so far as to call it impolite.”
A smile rose to his face, brightening those darkly handsome features into something charming, almost boyishly so. “I should hardly think that would surprise you, my lady. Particularly given how vocal you have been about your assumptions of me. I was under the impression you viewed me as someone incapable of even nominal politeness.”
“I suppose you are right.” His hand was firm and warm against the small of her back, even through the fabric of her dress.
She had never been so close to him before, she realized. Even more frightening was the feeling that pooled in her stomach, in her cheeks, her lips—the desire to be even closer.
She struggled to keep her voice even as they continued their path across the floor, weaving in between other dancing couples. “My opinion of you has been none too high ever since our first acquaintance, and yet somehow you continue to find new and thrilling ways to sink it lower and lower. Well done, Your Grace.”
He laughed. “I can hardly take credit for it,” he replied. “You seem most determined to think the worst of me no matter what I do.”
“It is through no effort of mine, Your Grace,” said Cecilia. “I have no great dislike of humanity; far from it. My father and mother raised me to think the best of everyone’s character until otherwise proven.”
He tilted his head in interest. “Is that so?”
She nodded, looking still just as firm and cold as before. “It is. And, furthermore, I will have you know that they raised Zachary in much the same way. I can only assume it is this generosity of spirit which has allowed him to fall victim to your libertine example.”
Ian sighed. “Your brother has done very little falling, Lady Cecilia, I assure you,” he said. “Any misadventures he may have had in my company were not under duress. Far from it.”
“And yet he is already back to his honorable ways.” Her gaze drifted to the side of the dance floor, where her brother had returned to Nancy, speaking with her over a glass of lemonade. She smiled as she watched her brother make her best friend laugh. “It is quite a clear declaration of interest, asking a lady for a dance.”
“Is it?”
Realizing the implications of what she had just said, her eyes snapped back to the duke’s. “For most men, that is.” She cleared her throat. “Rest assured, Your Grace, I have no such assumptions when it comes to this dance.”
He scoffed. “How kind of you.”
She pursed her lips. “Though I must say I cannot imagine what drove you to ask me so insistently to begin with.”
“Is a man not allowed to enjoy a dance with a lady?” The edges of his mouth curled. “Particularly one who is so unceasingly entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” Her brows lifted. “Should I be insulted?”
“You have never once been shy of speaking your mind, Lady Cecilia. You cannot deny that.”
“Only when the situation calls for it—as it always seems to, with you.”
“I see.” He nodded a few times to himself, thinking. “So I am to understand that you are entirely silent in the company of other gentlemen? Quiet as a church mouse?”
Cecilia’s eyes narrowed. “I fail to see how that is your business,” she replied, though her attempt at coolness was belied by a hint of annoyance beginning to dance around the edges of her tone.
“I assure you, I am not attempting to pry, Lady Cecilia,” he said calmly, seeming enjoying how his unceasingly calm tone seemed only to enrage her further. “I am merely making conversation. That would be the polite thing to do, no? To make up for my previous behavior.”
She scoffed. “It would be polite, I suppose. Though you will forgive me for saying that you seem to me to be the entirely unrepentant type.”
“It seems there are a great deal many different types you would seek to categorize me as, Lady Cecilia,” he answered, sounding as though his interest had been piqued. “Do you see all the world as so easily divisible? To you, there is repentant and unrepentant. There is honorable and dishonorable. There are gentlemen and rakes.”
She furrowed her brow. “Do you disagree with my categorizations?”
“I do not believe anything to be quite so black and white,” he answered easily.
She did not immediately reply with a biting comment. Instead, she paused, interested for once in what he had to say.
Perhaps encouraged by this, Ian cleared his throat, and continued, “At least, I will say, I have not found them to be so on my travels. People rarely fit so neatly into boxes.”
“Is that so?” Cecilia answered, her voice slightly softer than before.
He nodded. “I believe so,” he said, his tone shifting to match hers.
How strange, to go so quickly from heated banter to polite, if invigorating, discussion. Though she had nearly taken offense at what he had said before, she now felt almost like returning the compliment—the Duke of Harwick was nothing if not entertaining. Indeed, she could not recall the last time he had so enjoyed a conversation with a dance partner.
“There are not honorable and dishonorable men,” he continued. “There are just men. And those men sometimes act with honor and sometimes act in spite of it. Though, in the particular case of…what did you call them? My more libertine activities?”
“Something like that,” she managed.
“Well.” A wicked smile flashed across his face, and Cecilia was heated within by the sight alone. “I see nothing dishonorable about those in the slightest.”
His hand pressed harder against her waist, and she tightened her grip on his shoulders more firmly, as though convinced somehow that she might stumble if she didn’t. His well-formed features; the low rumble of his voice; the heat of his body so close to hers. She had never felt like this before. She wanted to run away.
Worse, she wanted to draw closer still.
God, but Lady Cecilia was fun to tease. While he had been motivated to ask her to dance with him by something almost like envy, the result was quite entertaining. He was playing with fire, he knew, nettling at her like this, when she seemed already so determined to dislike him at every turn. But there was something about her, something about the way her temper played out across that exquisite face that was impossible to get enough of, impossible to look away from.
Her cheeks were bright pink after his last remark, a sight that he quite enjoyed. “Is that so?” she said, her voice strained. Her hands grasped onto his shoulders. If he wasn’t quite so certain that she hated him, he would almost accuse her of swooning.
“Quite,” he said. His heart began to thump more fiercely in his chest as he took in those tempting lips. With her body pressed so close to his, it was almost impossible to think of anything but what it would feel like to be even closer, without all the distance and layers between them. “It is simply human nature. Nothing more, nothing less. I know society may have a different opinion on the matter, but I cannot pretend to agree or to understand why. It strikes me as silly, all of the rules we have.”
“The rules are the very backbone of society,” she argued. “They are its very foundation. Indeed, some would argue that the rules are society. They are what keep us respectable.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is all a charade.” He nodded at the ballroom, but kept his eyes fixed on hers, unable to pull them away. “The pretty costumes. The food, the music. The dancing. People talking in circles around what it is they really think, what it is they really want, all with the goal of remaining respectable. Respectability is more important to most people than honesty, and it is that which I disagree with.”
Her brow furrowed. He expected another scathing remark. But when she opened her mouth, all she said was, “I believe we may have found something upon which we can agree, Your Grace.”
His brows lifted. “Is that so?”
“I believe there are some rules of society which are sensible to follow,” she said quickly, as though not wanting him to think she was all too agreeable. He couldn't help but smile. “But I agree that people are often much too reluctant to speak their mind truly. I cannot help but think the world would be a much better place—a much more interesting place, for that matter—if people were to say honestly what they thought, and what they felt. It is a matter of practicality. Otherwise, how are we to ever truly know one another? It makes for quite a lonely world when one cannot trust anyone to ever be truthful.”
Something hooked behind his chest. “My thoughts exactly,” he said lowly. With every step they took, he felt himself fight the urge to draw closer to her, closer, closer still. It was overwhelming.
It was…frightening.
Ian Repington had never once dealt with a challenge he couldn’t face, or feelings he couldn’t control.
And yet suddenly, in Lady Cecilia, he seemed to have found both.
As the music wound to an end, the couples stopped in their dances. To bow would be customary.
Instead, the duke walked off the dance floor.
Cecilia watched him go in shock. Clearly some of the other guests noticed, as well; she saw glances in her direction, and whispers that followed the duke’s retreating figure. No matter. She shook her head, releasing herself from the moment, and left the dance floor to find her friend.
But Nancy was still wrapped up in conversation with her brother. At the sight, feelings swirled within Cecilia that were difficult to place, layering atop the strangeness of what she and the duke had just shared.
Everything was going according to plan, yes. But if Nancy were to marry Zachary—indeed, if Nancy were to marry anyone—surely it would bring about some change to their friendship.
Nothing could truly erase their deep-rooted fondness for each other, true, and yet the shift would be there. They would have new wifely duties to attend to. A person who they would entrust every secret with, share a house and children and lives.
If Zachary were to be that person for Nancy, who would be that person for Cecilia?
“My lady?”
She turned in a surprise at the unfamiliar voice, then curtsied. “Lord Havish.”
The lord bowed. “If you are not otherwise taken, would you do me the pleasure of accompanying me for the next dance?”
She looked back in the duke’s direction, only to find him nowhere in sight. Why had he left so soon? Why had he asked her to dance at all? None of it made sense. If nothing else, at least a glance at Nancy and Zachary revealed that the duke was not over there trying inexplicably and incessantly to drive a stake between them.
But how to explain the rest of it?
“My lady?”
Cecilia shook her head and turned to smile at Lord Havish. “Thank you for asking me, Lord Havish. I would be most delighted to.”
Lord Havish was a perfectly respectable gentleman. He was certainly a better dancer than her first partner of the night.
But good Heavens, was he a terrible conversationalist.
It almost was enough to make Cecilia wish he would step on her foot, just to give her a momentary reprieve from the endless droning he tried to pass off as conversation.
“So, my lady,” he said, after a long and awkward pause, what felt like an eternity through their dance, which was, somehow, not yet even halfway over. “Are you one for embroidery?”
It was the fifth such inquiry he’d made. Following questions about weaving, darning, cross-stitching, and crochet. Cecilia fought the urge to roll her eyes, instead forcing a pleasant grin as they swayed back and forth. “At times, my lord.”
“I see, I see.” Another long pause. He opened his mouth again. “Do you do sewing of any other kind?”
After suffered through three more excruciating minutes of dance and dialogue with Lord Havish, Cecilia at last managed to extricate herself, making the excuse that dancing with the same gentleman two songs in a row would not be proper.
Having shaken him off, she made a beeline for the doors to the garden. The ballroom suddenly felt nothing short of suffocating, and she needed to get out. She needed some fresh air, some solitude, some time to think amidst the greenery and peace and quiet. She needed to be able to ponder all of the questions that had been swirling around in her head all evening.
“Escaping the festivities so soon, my lady?”
A scowl rose to Cecilia’s face. What she most certainly did not need was to be furthered pestered by the one person she wanted least in the world to see. She whirled around to see the duke, hands in his pockets, walking smugly down the garden path towards her, that omnipresent smirk infuriatingly smeared across his face. With the light of the ballroom behind him, his strong, masculine shoulders cut an even more striking silhouette.
She stopped where she should, letting him approach. “I could ask you the same,” she retorted. “Are none of the young ladies in attendance worthy of your interest? Have your prior misadventures left you so easily bored?”
“I merely noticed your departure, Lady Cecilia, and was concerned. I wished to ensure you were not being accosted by any more tedious dance partners. That Lord Havish seemed to be causing you particular anguish.”
She scoffed. “Do not expect me to believe that for one moment. You are much more concerned with my brother’s affairs than you are with my potential dance partners.”
“Perhaps I have an interest in both,” he said. He had his hands in his pockets in a terribly casual way, which only served to make Cecilia angrier still for no reason.
“Ah, I see.” She crossed her arms and stepped back towards him. “So meddling in one sibling’s life was not enough for you. You demand to meddle in mine, as well.”
The duke laughed. “To the contrary, Lady Cecilia. I have no interest in meddling in your life or your brother’s. In fact, you are the one who seems determined to meddle, and I am the one who wishes to stop you from meddling.”
“You say that, my lord, but you have proved most adept at meddling yourself,” she crowed.
“And you, my lady, seem quite adept at pushing boundaries,” he said, nearly snapping. “Why is that? Perhaps because no one has ever dared to push back?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you volunteering to do so, Your Grace?”
His breathing was heavy, audibly so, matching her own, as he took one more step towards her. Cecilia was suddenly aware that they were closer to each other now than they had ever been. Perhaps even closer than they had been while dancing.
When the duke spoke again, his voice was low, and almost seemed to resonate deep in her chest. “Perhaps I am,” he growled.
A sudden gust of wind pushed Cecilia forward, carrying her shawl off her shoulders. As she reached for it, the sudden movement stole her balance, and she stumbled. She closed her eyes, steeling herself in preparation for the harsh feeling of the cold ground beneath her?—
Only to feel nothing of the sort.
What she hit into was sturdy, but warm; and, indeed, she still seemed very much to be on her feet.
Opening her eyes, she realized: it was a chest. The strong, solid chest of the duke himself, the cut of his muscles touchable beneath the fabric of his clothing. She stared up at him. He stared down at her. Having caught her when she stumbled, his arms rested on her shoulders—her newly bare shoulders—and her hands on his chest.
A loud gasp sounded from the balcony.
They both looked up.
There on the balcony stood Lady Winthorpe.
Cecilia knew the name. She remembered overhearing a conversation detailing Lady Winthorpe’s attachment to the duke. Worse still, she knew from everyday life in London that Lady Winthorpe was nothing if not a terrible gossip.
Lady Winthorpe stood with her hand pressed to her mouth, her gaze firmly upon Cecilia and the duke. A few other attendants of the ball, having heard her exclamation, came out onto the balcony to join her, forming a small crowd.
Cecilia pushed away from the duke.
“Lady Cecilia!” he called out after her, but she ignored him.
The ground was hard beneath her feet as she ran. When she reached the doors to the ballroom, she paused, and took a deep breath, fixing her shawl more firmly around her shoulders. Looking back, she could not see the duke. Clearly, he had not given chase.
Nothing happened, she reminded herself.
And it was true—nothing had happened. Even if Lady Winthorpe had seen them, what had she seen? A gentleman assisting a lady who had stumbled, nothing more.
A gentleman and a lady without a chaperone present, in the dark of the night, alone in a garden.
She shook off those thoughts. It would not do to dwell on what she couldn’t control.
With one more deep breath, she entered the ballroom.
But as she walked forward, looking for her mother, or her friend, it was impossible not to notice the trail of whispers and glances that began to follow behind her.