Chapter 3
“Are you part of the entertainment?” a voice growled from the edge of the room.
“Ronda Alla Turca” came to a rather surprising halt just as that voice, a voice which shuddered over her and, frankly, reminded her of a cup of hot chocolate that was just ever so slightly too bitter, filled the air.
Agatha’s skirts kissed her legs, swinging, and her breasts rose and fell in rapid takes of breath, for she had exerted herself with enthusiasm, as she turned to locate the owner of the voice.
It was a delicious voice, and yet she tensed.
She spotted the man. Man?
That certainly wasn’t the word for this magnificent specimen, who was staring at her ankles and her limbs as if he was going to kiss every bit of her.
She looked down quickly and realized that she was still holding the hem of her skirts past her calves, exposing the soft blue embroidery of her stockings.
With a peep of dismay, she dropped her skirts, and they swished over her slippers, the ribbons flitting.
His thick, dark hair feathered over his brow, emphasizing carved cheekbones and a jaw that longed to be stroked. Or punched. His sensual lips were curved in a perplexed smile, as if he did not know if he should kiss her passionately or scold her.
His body seemed to strain ever so slightly against his black and cream evening clothes, as if he was too big for this world, let alone his tailoring.
He filled the room with his sculpted presence…and he knew it. He was a man far above her importance and her reach.
Her fingers itched for an instant, gripping her silk gown, for she longed to reach for him.
For a single moment, she almost gave a nervous laugh, but she wasn’t a nervous person. So a bold laugh bubbled past her lips, and then she shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh dear, do I look as if I’m part of the entertainment?” she asked.
And then it hit her.
This man, this gorgeous, intimidating man who gazed at her as if he wished to devour her like she was a bonbon made by a French chef was one of the most powerful men in England.
It was the Duke of Westfort.
The Duke of Westfort had been staring at her ankles and limbs whilst she had been cavorting quite happily to her favorite music.
She wasn’t certain if she should be utterly mortified or completely bemused, and in such a circumstance, she really found there was only one thing to do because she refused to live her life mortified.
She laughed again.
Amusement really was the only option if she was to be a happy person, and she was determined to be happy. Otherwise, she’d have to sink through the floor with trembling shame.
And she didn’t believe in shame. Trembling or otherwise.
She’d been happy all her life. She didn’t see why the Duke of Westfort staring at her ankles should change that. As a matter of fact, his gaze, which was quite warm, or at least so she felt, had roamed upward from her ankles to her face and was looking at her most curiously.
“Ah, I must indeed look like the entertainment,” she sighed whimsically, “for you look perplexed.”
“You’re not dressed like the entertainment,” he growled softly, “unless the Duke of Rivers has some very odd ideas about tableaus at present.”
She tilted her head to the side, her curls tumbling over her neck and teasing her temple. His gaze followed those curls as if, again, he wished to kiss the skin where her locks touched.
“I guess I should be quite pleased that you think I have the skills to be a professional entertainer,” she sallied.
Some might have been terrified in such a man’s presence. But why should she be? What an utter waste of time. And time was really the only thing one had.
His eyes sparked with amusement. “I really have no idea what to say.”
“I have struck you speechless. Another compliment,” she said.
“Miss,” he ventured. “Are you always so…?”
He seemed to struggle for the right word.
“Optimistic,” she supplied. “Determined to see the good in everything.”
“I suppose that’s a way to put it,” he said, his voice still a low rumble as he crossed further into the room, his hands folding behind his rather impressive back.
He was impressive.
Yes, she realized she had now used that word twice to describe him, but it was the only suitable one. He towered, positively towered. She had seen miniatures of him, portraits of him, and likenesses of him in the gossip sheets.
She loved a good gossip sheet. Her whole family did.
As a matter of fact, they often spent time in the evenings reading them before the fire whilst having their drinks, narrating them with great animation and perhaps a touch of drama.
After all, what was this life for if not to laugh at their betters?
Still, none of those likenesses had captured him.
“Do you not approve of optimism?” she asked.
“Optimism is only warranted when there’s something to be optimistic about.”
“Well,” she said, surprised by his rather dreary take on the world, given his power and position, “I have just listened to the finest music in the world. How can I not be optimistic?”
He quirked a brow. “You like Herr Mozart?” he asked.
“Like? He is the most magnificent of souls!” she crowed.
“I met him,” he said softly.
“What?” she asked, stunned. “Truly?”
He smiled slowly, clearly enjoying her emotion. “Yes, I was in Austria a few years ago and had the good fortune to see him. I don’t think he is a very happy person, but by God, he is singular.”
There was a pause as if he wished to say, Like you, which was completely absurd because she and Herr Mozart had nothing in common.
She was not a genius. She was not actually singular. She was just a girl who liked to be happy and to dance about to extremely good music.
“How fortunate for you,” she said. “And did you thrill to it?”
“Thrill?” he echoed.
“Yes,” she nodded, surprised he was not following her line of thought. “To the music.”
“No,” he said easily. “I stood just as everyone else did, applauded when appropriate, and recognized the fact that I was in the company of exceptional talent.”
She let out a wistful sigh, surprised by how easy it actually was to talk to Westfort. “I think I should have melted on the spot.”
“That sounds very messy,” he drawled.
She laughed. “I suppose so. But isn’t life supposed to be a little bit messy?”
“No,” he said with shocking swiftness. “Who told you that?”
“No one needed to tell me,” she answered. “As far as I can tell, things are a bit of a mess.”
“A bit of a mess,” he echoed. “What company do you keep?”
“Forgive me,” she said and gave a quick curtsy. “How remiss of me. I am the daughter of Baron and Lady Allen. I am Miss Agatha Allen.”
“My goodness,” he said. “What a vast amount of As.”
“Alliteration is most fun,” she said.
He blinked. “I suppose if you’re a poet, or the maker of limericks,” he said, tensing, as if he was purposefully trying to douse his own enjoyment. “Now, I have somewhere to be. As I’m sure you do.”
Then he paused and blurted as if he could not help himself, “Why the devil were you doing that?”
“What?” she asked.
“Dancing about the room like that, cavorting, rollicking with your skirts up. Don’t you realize what a terrible scandal you could cause?”
She winced, but then she grinned, for what else could she do? “Oh dear, are you going to expose me to the masses for being scandalous?”
“No,” he said. “It’s really not worth my time to do so.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh dear.” She lifted her hand to her heart. “You wound me to the quick, sir. But of course, I am but a little mouse in the company of such a great man.”
He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. It is not worth my time to ruin someone like you.”
“Someone like me,” she returned, stunned by how she enjoyed bantering with him. “You are correct, and I am grateful that you are not a malevolent sort, especially when I was just being happy.”
He suddenly scowled. “I don’t understand what made you happy about it.”
“Because it’s a delightful piece of music and I moved my body.”
“Did you just say the word body?” he ground out.
“I did.” She lifted her hands to her lips. “Oh dear. Another scandal.”
“Are you married?” he asked.
“No. This is my first Season.”
“Your mother needs to take you to hand. You shall never marry if you talk like this. Or she needs to get you married fast to save you from yourself. Married ladies can be bawdy. Not young misses.”
“I shall marry the right man,” she said, straightening. “If I talk in any other way, I no doubt will end up married to a terrible fellow in a terrible circumstance.”
He paused, stared at her, then let out a long sigh. “Oh, you’re one of those, aren’t you?”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’re planning to marry for love, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, blinking. “It’s all I really have. Our family has funds, of course, and I have a dowry and a name, but love is all there is in this world, Your Grace.”
He choked back a laugh. “Oh, you are optimistic,” he said. “I do hope all that optimism will get you through the years.”
“I’m sure it will,” she returned. Then she added, “It is my turn to fear for you.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I. Fear. For. You. I can say it louder if—”
“I heard you,” he cut in rapidly. “Why in God’s name would you fear for me? I’m the Duke of Westfort.”
“So you are,” she said. “But your general disdain for happiness and optimism means that you’re going to live a fairly miserable existence, and I would not wish that upon anyone.”
“I’m a duke,” he said.
“Yes, so you’ve said.”
“You wouldn’t wish my life on anyone?”
She folded her hands before her and pursed her lips as she studied him anew. “Well, I don’t really know enough about your life to truly wish it or not wish it upon a person, but you do seem, well, I don’t know, rather without vivacity.”
His jaw dropped. “Madam, this is very, very unusual conversation, and I find that—”
“Try it,” she said.
“Try what?” he sputtered, clearly stunned by her audacity.
But she wasn’t being audacious. She was just being herself. For she had no idea how to be, nor could she be, anyone else.
She waggled her brows. “Dancing.”
The music had started up again.
“I will dance a great deal this evening,” he stated, a muscle tightening in his delicious jaw.
She arched her bow. “Yes, but not like this and not to this.”
He stared at her for a very long time, and for the briefest of moments, she was certain that he was considering.
Certain that he was envisioning looking again at her limbs, at her hem sashaying about her skirts, and something flickered in his eyes.
Something that was akin to interest. Something that was definitely not disdain.
It was if there was something in him that wished to throw away whatever visage he had taken on and find a new one, but then he suddenly stiffened.
Those beautifully broad shoulders of his went perfectly straight under his beautifully made coat.
He cocked his beautiful head to the side and said in his beautiful dark chocolate tones, “I’m going to leave you now. This is a conversation that I will quickly put from my mind, and I will not have a word with your mother and father, though someone should.”
“Perhaps someone should have a word with your mother—as you are a duke, I know your father is no longer with us—and tell her that her son’s happiness should be a priority.”
His jaw dropped. He still looked quite handsome.
He couldn’t reply, it seemed.
The duke crossed the room slowly, staring at her. “Do you wish to ruin your entire family by being absolutely contrary?”
“I wasn’t being contrary,” she pointed out, shivering at his nearness, which wasn’t frightening but extremely tempting, like his voice. “I was telling the truth.”
“The truth,” he echoed. “You, my dear, are going to get in very, very bad trouble.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I will be happy doing it.”