“I never did believe the rumors about him.”
“Oh, pish,” dismissed the one lady, “even if it was true, who would give a fig? Lady Sarah Locksley had to have been looking for a reason to beg off if that scared her away so easily. One plants one’s feet and fights for a man like that.”
Amelia considered the lady might have a point.
“I wonder if he’s still…”
“The most devastating man on two feet?”
“Those shoulders.”
“Thosethighs.”
A warm shiver slid through Amelia. She knew all about those thighs. But the way the ladies stood assessing Tristan rubbed her fur the wrong direction. They spoke of him like he was an object—a desirable object—but an object all the same. A duke…athing…to be caught and possessed.
Of a sudden, she understood the allure of his life in Italy. There, he could be nothing more or less than a man.
He’d been correct about the people populating this ballroom.Small-minded…judgmental…incurious.
All of them added together weren’t worth one of him.
Oh, what had she done?
Then she heard it. Another name.Hers.
She swiveled around to find a grouping of four young ladies staring at her in a manner that neither warmed nor welcomed her. Two of them looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know any of them by name, much less well enough to have caused the offense that would warrant the looks she was receiving. She tried smiling. They simply kept staring. Then they clustered together to form a tight, little circle.
Amelia’s cheeks went hot. She understood precisely what had just happened. She’d received the cut direct. The past misdeeds of her family had neither been forgiven nor forgotten. She felt as exposed as if she stood stark naked with a hundred pairs of eyes upon her.
She glanced around. They weren’t. But really, she no longer wanted to be here.
This had been a mistake.
A throat cleared behind her. A masculine throat that sounded too familiar. But surely that was her imagination carrying her away. She turned. Before her stood—
She blinked, unable to believe her eyes.
Before her stoodhim—the ox…the Duke of Ripon…Tristan—dressed in evening blacks, his massive, muscular form, improbably congruous with the elegance of his clothing. He looked every inch the devastating duke.
The most devastating man on two feet.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted before thinking better of it. In truth, they’d never been properly introduced, so she shouldn’t be speaking any words to him. Further, her words shouldn’t have been those words.
“I was hoping you would do me the honor of this dance,” he said, formally, correctly.
No few curious glances flicked their direction, and the young ladies who had aimed the cut direct at her might be staring with mouths slightly agape. It shouldn’t, but it gave Amelia no small bit of satisfaction. Even so…
She and Tristan most definitely shouldnotdance.
She’d vowed never to touch the man again.
She had trouble stopping once she started.
He took a step closer, the space between them not quite intimate, but personal. Only for them. “What just happened with those young ladies?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Her cheeks flamed with the lie.
“It will keep happening unless…”
