Chapter Five
“You’re pacing.”
William stopped mid-stride and turned to glare at Worthington, who was lounging against the wall of Lady Marchmont’s ballroom with the infuriating ease of a man who had nothing at stake.
“I am not pacing. I am… surveying the room.”
“You have surveyed the room seven times in the past quarter hour. You have also checked your cravat twice, adjusted your cuffs three times, and consumed two glasses of champagne at a speed that suggests medicinal rather than recreational intent.” Worthington’s eyes gleamed with amusement.
“If I did not know better, I would say you were nervous.”
“I am never nervous.”
“You are nervous about her.”
William did not dignify this with a response. He turned back to the ballroom entrance, watching the steady stream of arrivals with an intensity he could not quite disguise.
She was not here yet.
It was barely nine o’clock, unfashionably early, and there was no reason to expect her for another hour at least. And yet he had arrived at eight-thirty, positioning himself with a clear sightline to the entrance, telling himself it was a coincidence while knowing it was anything but.
Seven days.
He had spent seven days thinking about Miss Eliza Hayfield.
Seven days replaying the moment in the rose garden when she had looked at him and said all of them, I’m afraid with an honesty that had nearly undone him.
Seven days remembering the way her breath had quickened when he’d stepped close, the faint flush spreading down her throat, the way her eyes had dropped to his mouth as though she could not help herself.
She wanted him. That much was clear. She wanted him despite knowing what he was, despite the warnings she had received, despite every rational reason to stay away. She wanted him, and she had admitted it to his face, and the admission had lodged in his chest like a hook he could not remove.
He should not have asked for the waltz.
He had known it even as the words left his mouth.
A waltz was intimate, too intimate for a man trying to maintain distance, too dangerous for a man already fighting the urge to touch her.
He should have limited himself to conversation, to the safe distance of verbal sparring, to encounters that could be abandoned before anything irreversible occurred.
Instead, he had asked her to dance.
And she had agreed.
And now he was standing in Lady Marchmont’s ballroom at an unconscionably early hour, watching the entrance like a lovesick fool, his pulse quickening every time a woman in a pale gown appeared in his peripheral vision.
This is not who you are, he told himself savagely. You do not pine. You do not wait. You do not feel your heart stutter at the thought of a woman’s presence.
All of this was true. Or had been true, until approximately two weeks ago, when a brown-haired girl had looked away from him across a crowded ballroom and somehow turned his entire carefully constructed existence inside out.
“She is here.”
Worthington’s voice cut through his thoughts, and William’s head snapped toward the entrance with a speed that betrayed everything he was trying to hide.
Eliza stood at the top of the stairs beside her cousin, her expression a careful mask of composure that he recognised because he wore one himself.
She was wearing blue tonight, a soft, pale blue that reminded him of summer skies, and her hair was dressed with small white flowers that caught the candlelight when she moved.
She was not the sort of woman who ordinarily attracted notice.
He had established this to his own satisfaction at their first meeting.
Her features were pleasant but unremarkable, her figure modest, her colouring unfashionable.
There was nothing about her that should command attention in a room full of diamonds.
And yet he could not look away.
She descended the stairs with careful grace, her aunt and cousin close beside her.
Lady Philippa murmured something that made her nod.
Her gaze swept the room, casually, as though she were merely taking in the spectacle, but he saw the moment she found him.
The slight catch in her step. The deepening of colour in her cheeks.
The way her hand tightened briefly around the folds of her skirt.
She was looking for him too.
The knowledge sent a surge of something through his chest, triumph, perhaps, or satisfaction, or the more dangerous feeling he refused to name.
“If you will excuse me,” he said to Worthington, already moving.
“Will, wait.”
But William was not listening. He was crossing the ballroom with purpose, navigating the currents of society with automatic ease, his attention fixed on the woman in blue who was very carefully not looking at him.
He reached her just as her aunt was drawing her and Miss Ashborn toward a cluster of matrons.
“Mrs Ashborn. Miss Hayfield. Miss Ashborn.” He bowed, precise and proper. “How delightful to see you all.”
Mrs Ashborn’s expression suggested it was anything but delightful. “Your Grace.”
“I believe I have the honour of a waltz with Miss Hayfield this evening.” He turned to Eliza, and something in his chest constricted at the way she was looking at him, half eager, half terrified, entirely too honest for her own good. “If you are still amenable?”
“I…” She glanced at her aunt, who was radiating disapproval with impressive intensity. “Yes. I am amenable.”
“Excellent.” He offered his arm. “I believe the next set is beginning shortly. Shall we?”
Mrs Ashborn looked as though she wished to protest, but propriety constrained her. One did not refuse a duke, not publicly, not without cause that could be named. Whatever her private concerns, she had nothing to offer beyond suspicion.
Eliza placed her hand on his arm.
Even through the layers of gloves and fabric, he felt the contact like a brand. Her fingers were trembling slightly, nerves, perhaps, or the same awareness that was currently making his own skin feel too tight for his body.
He led her toward the dance floor, conscious of the whispers following them. The Duke of Hollowshade, dancing with the country nobody. It would be the talk of the evening, the talk of the week, another log on the fire of speculation that had been burning since the Worthington ball.
Let them talk. He found he did not care.
The orchestra was tuning, the first strains of the waltz beginning to emerge. Couples were taking their positions, the women settling their hands on their partners’ shoulders, the men assuming the proper stance of controlled intimacy.
William turned to face Eliza, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other.
She was breathing faster than the occasion warranted.
He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, visible above the modest neckline of her gown.
Her eyes were very dark in the candlelight, that warm brown that reminded him of brandy, and they held an expression that made something twist in his gut.
She was afraid of him.
Not the way prey feared a predator. The way a person feared a fire they wanted to touch despite knowing it would burn.
“You came,” she said softly.
“I said I would.”
“I thought perhaps you might…” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly. “Never mind.”
“You thought I might not appear?” He stepped closer, assuming the waltz position, and felt her sharp intake of breath as his hand settled at her waist. “After requesting the dance myself?”
“I thought you might have reconsidered.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “After the garden. After what I said.”
His fingers tightened fractionally against the curve of her waist. The fabric of her gown was thin, too thin, and he could feel the warmth of her body beneath it, the subtle shift of her breathing, the way she swayed almost imperceptibly toward him.
“What you said,” he repeated. “You mean when you admitted you find me devastating, dangerous, and untrustworthy?”
Colour flooded her cheeks. “I should not have—”
“It was the most honest thing anyone has said to me in years.” His voice dropped, rough despite his best efforts. “I have thought of little else since.”
Her lips parted. Just slightly. Just enough that he found himself staring at her mouth, wondering what she would taste like, wondering if her kisses would be as artless and overwhelming as the rest of her.
The music began.
He swept her into the dance before he could do something unforgivable.
The waltz was designed for intimacy. William had always known this, had used it countless times to advance seductions, to whisper inappropriate suggestions in willing ears, to establish the physical familiarity that preceded more interesting encounters.
He knew exactly how to hold a woman during a waltz, exactly how close to pull her, exactly how to make the dance itself a form of foreplay.
This was different.
This was torture.
Eliza moved with him, following his lead with a grace that suggested her dancing lessons had been thorough.
But she was not an accomplished dancer, not polished, not practised, not smoothly executing steps she had performed a thousand times.
She was concentrating, her brow slightly furrowed, her body tense with the effort of keeping up.
And every time she stumbled, every tiny misstep, every fractional loss of rhythm, her body pressed closer to his, and William felt his control slip another notch.
She smelled of something floral and innocent. Not the heavy French perfumes he was accustomed to, the sophisticated scents of women who knew exactly what effect they wished to produce. She smelled like a garden in spring, sweet, fresh, unbearably pure.
He wanted to bury his face in her neck and breathe her in until he was drunk on it.
“You are very quiet,” she said, and there was a note of uncertainty in her voice that made him want to simultaneously reassure her and devour her.
“I am trying,” he said carefully, “to behave myself.”
Her eyes flew to his, wide and startled. “Behave yourself?”