The Duke led her to the center of the floor with confident steps that belied his impaired vision. His hand found her waist with unerring accuracy, and he guided her other hand to rest on his shoulder. Then his arms encircled her properly, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other taking her free hand in his.
The music swelled, and he began to move, leading her through the steps of a waltz with fluid grace.
“Can you dance, Miss Sinclair?” he asked, his lips dangerously close to her ear.
She looked up at him, noting the way his eyes seemed to track her face even though she knew he couldn’t see her clearly. “Can you see?” she asked instead of answering.
“No.”
“Then isn’t it rather late to be asking if I can dance?”
His mouth curved into that devastating smirk. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, “Just follow my lead.”
His hand at her back pressed more firmly, his fingers splaying across the silk of her gown in a touch that felt almost possessive. Joan’s breath caught in her throat.
He said Octavia was only his friend’s sister, Joan thought desperately. But they looked so close. And she touched him so familiarly. What if he wasn’t being truthful? What if they do have an understanding?
“You might make her misunderstand,” Joan whispered, unable to keep the words inside.
The Duke spun her suddenly, the movement so swift and unexpected that Joan gasped. He caught her easily, pulling her back against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around her waist while his other hand came up to cradle the back of her head.
They were pressed together now, closer than propriety allowed, and Joan could feel the warmth of him through the thin silk of her gown. She could feel his heartbeat.
He stroked her hair gently, his fingers threading through the carefully arranged curls. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough with something Joan didn’t dare name.
“I was right,” he murmured. “Red does look exquisite on you.”
Joan felt herself melting into his embrace, all her reservations and fears dissolving in the warmth of his arms. She rested her head against his chest, just for a moment, and let herself pretend.
Later that night, Peters guided them back to Fairfax Manor, the night dark and quiet around them. Victoria had fallen asleep against Joan’s shoulder, exhausted from the evening’s excitement and perhaps from the glass of wine she’d consumed.
Joan stroked her sister’s hair absently, trying desperately not to think about the Duke’s arms around her. About the way he had held her so close, as though she belonged to him. About the rough timbre of his voice when he’d said red looked exquisite on her.
Stop it, she commanded herself.He was simply being polite.
But even as she thought it, she could still feel the phantom warmth of his hand at the small of her back.
The manor came into view, its windows dark save for a single lamp burning in the entrance hall. Peters brought the carriage to a stop, and Joan carefully shifted Victoria to wake her.
“We’re home, dearest,” she murmured.
Victoria stirred but didn’t fully wake, mumbling something incoherent before settling deeper into sleep.
Peters opened the carriage door and then stopped abruptly, his weathered face creasing with surprise.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said carefully. “Someone seems to be waiting outside the mansion.”
Joan’s heart leapt into her throat. Julian. It has to be Julian. He’s found us.
She practically shoved Victoria at Peters and scrambled from the carriage, her red silk skirts tangling around her legs in her haste.
But the figure that emerged from the manor’s entrance wasn’t Julian Hawthorne.
“Damian!” Joan’s voice broke on her brother’s name.
He strode forward and caught her in a fierce embrace, lifting her clean off her feet despite her elaborate gown. “Hello, Joan.”
“What are you doing here? Is something wrong? Did Julian?—”
