It was her way out. All she needed to do was say no. And indeed she had never performed the steps at any public assembly, only with Charles and a few of their friends at private gatherings. But she was suddenly assailed by a deep longing to waltz here at Dudley House among her peers before she disappeared somewhere she would never be found. To waltz with the Duke of Tresham. Suddenly the temptation was overwhelming.
“She hesitates,” the duke murmured. He leaned closer. “You must not deny it now, Jane. Your silence has betrayed you.” He offered his arm. “Come.”
She hesitated only a moment longer before laying her arm along his and turning into the drawing room.
To dance.
To waltz with the Duke of Tresham.
***
ONE THING WAS VERYclear to Jocelyn as he sat conversing with a few of his more elderly guests while the younger ones danced an energetic country dance. Jane Ingleby was going to have to go soon. Away from Dudley House. Away from him.
She had indeed become the focus of attention. She was not dancing, but she was surrounded by a veritable court of admirers, among them Kimble and Ferdinand, both of whom should have been dancing. She looked somewhat incongruous in her sprigged muslin dress and simple coiffure when every other lady present was decked out in silks and satins and jewels with elaborate plumes and turbans. But she made every one of them look fussy and overdressed.
She was simplicity itself. Like a single rose. No, a rose was too elaborate. Like a lily. Or a daisy.
There would indeed be questions if he kept her here any longer. Surely it must be apparent to all his guests, as it should have been to him for the past three weeks, that she was a lady from the top of her head down to her toenails. The impoverished orphan of an impoverished gentleman, at a guess. But a lady nonetheless. An extraordinarily lovely one.
He was going to have to find her employment elsewhere—a thoroughly depressing thought, which he would put out of his head for tonight. The country dance had ended. He got to his feet, leaving his cane propped against the chair. Putting his full weight on his right leg did not cause undue pain, he was relieved to find. He made his way toward Mrs. Marsh at the pianoforte.
“Take your partners, gentlemen,” he announced after consulting her, “for a waltz.” He moved in the direction of Jane and had the misfortune to meet the eyes of both Kimble and Brougham as he did so. Both were looking at him rather as if he had sprouted another head. He knew why. It was common knowledge that the Duke of Tresham never waltzed. He extended his right hand. “Miss Ingleby?”
“You will suffer for this,” she warned him as they took their places on the polished floor, from which the carpet had been rolled back. “You will probably be forced to spend the next two weeks with your leg up on a cushion.”
“Then you may have the satisfaction of saying you told me so,” he said, setting his right hand behind her waist and taking her right hand in his left.
He never waltzed, for the simple reason that it was far too intimate a dance for a man who had become adept at avoiding matrimonial traps. But he had always thought that if the occasion and the woman were ever right, he would find the waltz truly enchanting.
The time was right and so was the woman.
Her spine arched pleasingly beneath his hand. The curve of her other arm and her hand resting on his shoulder brought her tantalizingly close to him though their bodies did not once touch as they twirled about the room, their eyes on each other, the other dancers and the spectators forgotten, as if they did not exist. He could feel her body heat and smell the faint aroma of roses that seemed to cling about her.
She danced divinely, as if her feet did not quite touch the floor, as if she were a part of himself, as if they were both a part of the music or it a part of them. He found himself smiling at her. Although her face remained in repose, it seemed to him that an answering warmth beamed through her blue eyes.
It was only as the music drew to an end that he realized two things—that he had inadvertently let go of his customary haughty aloofness, and that his leg was aching like a thousand devils.
“I am going to bed,” she said breathlessly.
“Ah, Jane,” he said softly, “I cannot come with you. I have a houseful of guests.”
She withdrew herself from his arms as everyone changed partners or returned to the sidelines.
“But I will escort you to your room,” he told her. “No, you may not look significantly down at my leg. I am not a cripple, Jane, and will not behave like one. Take my arm.”
He did not care who saw them leave together. He would not be gone long. And she would not be here at Dudley House much longer to fuel any gossip. That was clearer than ever to him.
The hall and staircase seemed very quiet in contrast to the buzz of conversation they had left behind in the drawing room and could still hear. Jocelyn did not attempt conversation as they ascended slowly—he had not brought his cane with him. He did not speak at all until they were walking along the dimly lit corridor to Jane’s room.
“You were as much of a success as I knew you would be,” he said then. “More so, indeed.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He paused outside her room, standing between her and the door.
“Your parents,” he said, “must have been very proud of you.”
“Y—” She caught herself in time. She looked keenly at him, as if to see whether his words had been a mere slip of memory. “The people who knew me were,” she said carefully. “But a talent is not something to be unduly proud of, your grace. My voice is something for which I can take no credit. It was given me, just as was your ability to play the pianoforte as you do.”
