CHAPTER THREE
Graham did not know what came over him.
Not when he collided with the woman whom he had not seen, and not when he had reached out to grasp her before she fell. And certainly not when he did not immediately let go of her but instead let himself be caught in her gaze.
Why? he thought.
Was it because, as she looked up at him, still supported by his arm, she only appeared curious and as enticed as him?
There was no smugness, no desperation, no demand.
Only a confused sort of wonder. Her body was soft against his, her warmth seeping into him, entirely different from the heat of the room.
Together, they were still, trapped in a spell that had everything else around him fading out.
The music, the stares, the whispers—this woman’s hazel eyes made it all go away.
Only against her warm body did he realize how cold his isolation had been all these years.
Stirring in him, he recognized a feeling he had long buried.
Something that looked like interest—that felt like…
wanting. He had not felt like this in years, and he almost traced down the woman’s arm in curious exploration.
But he could not let her go, still frozen and startled by being caught so off-guard.
He felt his frown soften as he gazed at her.
He cleared his throat.
And only when he pulled back did he notice that she wore a silver dress—one that almost matched the shade of his cravat perfectly.
“I am sorry for colliding with you,” he said, his voice hoarse. When had he last apologized to anyone? “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice timid, soft. “I am perfectly well.”
Hurriedly, he pulled her upright, and the spell broke. The sound of a waltz rushed back to him, and he felt the burn of a hundred stares into his back. He ignored them all.
“I was on my way to the garden,” the lady confessed.
“As was I,” he answered, “yet all I can think of now is to ask you for a dance.”
The woman blinked, her mouth parting. “I… Me, Your Grace? You wish to dance with… me?”
Why was that so confusing. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes. You. May I?”
He offered his hand after removing it from her arm.
The woman took it, still looking confused.
***
Amelia was still entirely confused as to why the Duke of Blackthorn of all men would notice her—and how fate had guided their feet towards one another, only to end in a collision right before their intended garden destination.
And now… now he wished to dance with her.
Nobody ever wished to dance with her.
Amelia couldn’t bring herself to meet her mother’s gaze, knowing it would reflect her own shock.
She could not bring herself to glance at Cassandra, whom she perceived in her periphery, fearing that her countenance would betray an overwhelming jealousy.
She dreaded the thought that such envy would be mirrored on the faces of every debutante surrounding her.
Instead, she only let the duke lead her onto the dance floor, her heart racing, and her mind whirling. Why me? she thought, and yet she could not stop the warmth through her chest. Would she be out of practice? Would people look and point at her?
Would Amelia be clumsy with two Seasons where her opportunities to dance had diminished progressively?
Yet as soon as she looked back at the duke, whose own brow twitched with uncertainty, she wondered if he was also having the same thoughts, and that settled her, somewhat. That someone so notorious and angrily confident as him might worry, as well.
After all, he had worn a look of intense displeasure upon arriving that night. It had, however, now been replaced by something softer.
The waltz began anew, and other couples dared not enter the floor yet, not as the duke took his first—and perhaps only—dance partner of the night. And how had it somehow been Amelia, the wallflower?
Clara will be beside herself when I tell her, Amelia thought.
All eyes were upon them, and she felt each gaze like a thousand needles.
As if she were a delicate flower, overrun with thorns.
As if she was a pin cushion—a very overcrowded pin cushion.
The duke’s hand went to her waist, and Amelia flushed.
A flutter went through her stomach, a menagerie of butterflies, at his touch.
It had been so long since a gentleman had taken her in a dance so gently.
“I do hope we will not crash into one another during our dance,” she found herself saying.
“I am sure I can lead us well enough.”
His answer was curt but his voice wasn’t as gruff as she had overheard it being earlier. Rumors said he had a tongue sharper than a blade, and yet he spoke to her much softer. Why? Was it his own guilt for walking into her?
They began to move, starting with a grand sweep of the floor, as Amelia ran through the count of the dance, one, two, three, together.
One, two, three, together. One, two, three, turn.
Over and over, the waltz built around them, and she could not help but wonder how a man with such a fearsome reputation, and sharpness about him could dance so gracefully.
Words left her tongue the longer they danced, for she could only look into the duke’s eyes.
He gazed back at her, something akin to her own wonder reflected in them.
It made her nervous; it made her stomach flutter with anxiety that felt more giddy than nauseous.
Her fears from when she first saw him melted with each step they took, crossing the expanse of the dance floor.
“What are you looking at?” he asked her, his voice slightly guarded.
I am wondering who the man is behind the mask of the Beastly Duke, she thought. Out loud, she answered, “your eyes remind me of the rich hue of coffee brewed in a quaint tearoom, like Delia’s Tearoom.”
She was not quite sure why she said it; her throat closed up as soon as she spoke, and she coughed lightly.
“Do you enjoy it there?” he asked, amused.
“Very much,” she said. “She makes very divine fruit sponge cake. Have you visited recently?”
“No,” he answered quietly. “I have not visited much of anywhere as of late.”
“I see.”
They lapsed back into silence, and yet it did not feel uncomfortable. Amelia did not feel as though she had to scramble for something to say. It hit her all over again how she was finally dancing at a ball—and with a duke, no less.
Heavens.
Of all men to notice her, it was the man rumored to be beastly.
So why did he look at her so kindly?
***
On the outskirts of the crowd watching the dance floor, where the Duke of Blackthorn and Amelia danced, Lady Eleanor, the daughter of the Earl of Fairfax, was approached by a man with loose, blonde curls.
He looked angelic yet the broad curl of his smirk gave his confidence away, as if a hint of a mischievous gentleman lurked beneath a more refined mask.
“Lady Eleanor,” called one of the matrons that Eleanor was acquainted to, as she approached with a knowing smile.
“Allow me to introduce you to Lord Owen Radcliffe, a most accomplished dancer.”
“My lady, you are stood alone,” he said.
“I am,” she answered smartly.
“Is it by choice? Say only the word and I shall walk away to leave you in peace. But only know that I shall look from afar, forever wondering how the pretty young lady might have danced. How gracefully she may have taken to the floor and—”
“My lord,” she interrupted, “are you going to wax very forward poetry all night, or will you ask me to dance?”
He blinked, stumped. “I—yes. Indeed, I am. May I have this dance, Lady…”, he stuttered as his confusion was overwhelming.
“Eleanor,” she told him. “Lady Eleanor Fairfax.”
“Well, then, Lady Eleanor, will you do Lord Owen Radcliffe the honour of being his first dance partner of the night?”
“I shall,” she answered coyly. She was timid with her friends but there was something about that twinkle in Lord Owen’s eyes that made her want to come alive a little more.
His hand reaching for hers, he took her to the dance floor, his attention never once lifting from her.
Usually, she kept very collected when dancing but she found herself blushing beneath his regard.
“Do you dance as well as you profess poetry?” she asked.
“I believe you are about to find out.”
With that, he took her and glided her across the floor effortlessly.
He was a very admirable dancer, full of grace and impeccable timing, as he guided their steps to match the rhythm of the orchestra.
She whirled around Amelia and the duke yet did not tear her gaze from Lord Owen and those soft, green eyes, the broad grin, and his curls.
“You are a lovely dancer,” he told her. “Your skill is exceptional.”
Eleanor turned shy at that. “You are very capable as well, my lord.”
He continued to turn her about the floor, his tailcoat lifting with the gentle spins.
“My first learned dance was the waltz,” he told her. “I found it very elegant, although the only lady I had to practice with, aside from my tutor, was my mother. I believe it must have been amusing for her to have her young son lead her around the entrance hall at our estate.”
Eleanor laughed softly. “I can only imagine. I do appreciate the beauty and steadiness of a waltz. However, I confess I have a passion for a country dance. It is ever so lively, and I feel as though it often brings out the best of a person’s personality.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “And the quadrille?”
“It is fine enough but I find it tedious. I wish to feel something deeper. I believe a waltz allows for such things.”
Lord Owen paused, his steps faltering for a moment. “We shall see, shall we not, Lady Eleanor?”
The way he said her name, as if it was a delicate thing on his tongue, made her flush with warmth.
“We shall,” she answered.