He didn’t even have time to wallow in the familiar old hell that reminders of his dead wife inevitably produced. The music had begun. He could either freeze and give in to his demons or move. The woman in his arms was vibrant and warm and lovely and infuriating all at once. But she was here, and she would be his.
He moved. He forced the ugliness from his mind. Here, beneath the heat of the old gas lights and crush of guests, with Lady Boadicea, he felt shockingly, brazenlyalive. Millicent’s death and three years of isolation from London had robbed him of the ability to feel. But now, his heart thumped wildly in his chest.
They whirled into a waltz, and he pulled her a bit nearer to his body than was necessary. He’d been half afraid that he wouldn’t recall the steps, but with Lady Boadicea in his arms, her beautiful face tilted upward, her sweet scent enveloping him, he did not even falter. One, two, three, one, two, three, and away they went, gliding over the polished floor with such synchronicity that it took his breath.
She was an accomplished dancer. He supposed he should not have been surprised by this discovery—after all, she was the daughter of an earl, even if the Harrington family name was plagued by scandal and eccentricities. She moved with a lissome grace that he couldn’t help but admire.
By the time the set almost reached its completion, his smile was no longer forced. He pulled her a scant inch closer on another twirl, setting his mouth near her ear. From this proximity, he discovered that her hair possessed not just glorious hues of red but shots of sun-kissed gold as well. It was utterly transfixing, and he could say in all honesty that he had never even noticed the precise color of any other lady’s hair before.
“You are an exceptionally gifted dancer, Lady Boadicea,” he said, his voice rough. It was the sort of compliment he may have paid years before, when he’d been innocent and unjaded and had never learned the bitter, abject despairs of failure, guilt, and loss. Something about the evening and the lady and the champagne buzzing through his veins made him want to believe in the fiction they would present tonight.
Indeed, he could almost forget, with the glitter of the lights and the whirling colors, the alluring melody of music. A primitive and foreign urge made him want to snatch her up in his arms and carry her far away from the din of the ballroom where they could be alone and he could press his lips to that delicate patch of silken skin where her jaw met her throat.
“You are a fine dancer as well, Duke,” she murmured at last, determined as ever to needle him by refusing to do as he’d asked and call him either by his Christian name or his title.
Her tenacity should have vanquished the rogue feelings simmering within him. He must be in his cups. Had he consumed more champagne than he’d realized? Two flutes, he could recall. That hardly seemed enough to lay a man of his size low or render him witless enough to be charmed by a lady with a dogged need to oppose him at every turn.
The set concluded. He found the Marchioness of Thornton waiting on the periphery and steered them in her direction. “One more dance,” he warned Lady Boadicea. “And then the announcement.”
Her fingers tensed on the crook of his arm in the only betrayal of emotion she gave, for her profile remained serene and her step didn’t falter. “How grim you sound.”
“Accepting,” he corrected with a smile he little felt. “I want this forced union no more than you do, my lady.”
“Of course not,” she muttered. “Why should a vaunted Marlow wish to marry an unacceptable Harrington who reads filth? I wonder, do you hate me, Your Grace?”
They were almost within earshot of the lady’s sister, so he slowed his steps, as much from shock at her question as from a desire to keep their words private. “The same could be asked of you, Lady Boadicea. Do you hateme?”
She stopped, midstride, and faced him, her vibrant blue gaze seeking his. “I hate having no choice.”
He thought it must have been the truest statement he’d heard from her yet. “You are not alone in that sentiment. But I’ve lived more years than you, and I can assure you that life is a deception. None of us, regardless of rank or birth, will ever have a choice in anything.”
Her lips compressed. “That is where we differ, Duke. You accept that you have no choice.”
Spencer didn’t know what the hell to say to that, so he tugged her along toward her sister. “Allow me to return you to the marchioness. Save another dance for me, my lady.”
“Yes, Duke.”
Her submissive response grated, as he knew it was disingenuous, and it sounded wrong. For all her wayward notions, he found that he actually preferred the way Lady Boadicea spoke to him, like an equal.
“Spencer,” he corrected her as they reached the marchioness, whose wide smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Duke,” Lady Boadicea said.
He gritted his teeth as he greeted Lady Thornton, who was lovely and kind and an older, gentler version of Lady Boadicea sans the glorious hair. “Lady Thornton.”
“Duke,” said his betrothed’s sister in greeting, her voice and tone so similar to Lady Boadicea’s that he would have almost mistaken it.
The sisters exchanged a telling glance. Well, hell. At least he knew where he stood.
he cold dawn wind battered Bo’s cheeksas the sleek Arabian mare beneath her thundered across a field. The sun—orange and fiery this morning—peeked over the distant horizon, and she and Damask Rose were fast proving kindred spirits. Both a bit on the wild side, with a love of freedom and the need to go as fast as they could possibly go, yes indeed, they were a matched pair.
She had been warned away from Damask Rose by the duke’s head groom the day of her arrival when she’d attempted a much-needed ride. And that was why, when she’d been unable to sleep after the wretched ball and even more wretched marriage announcement of last evening, she’d snuck away to the stables, saddled Miss Damask Rose herself, and galloped away.
No one knew she’d gone, and she had no one to answer to. Not the guests with their shocked expressions and curious glances following the betrothal announcement, not the supercilious Duchess of Cartwright or the dowager, and definitely not the icy Duke of Bainbridge himself.
They had danced twice. The second time had been notably more staid than the first, though perhaps it was down to the set itself rather than the duke. She couldn’t be certain. But what she did know was that beyond feigning a smile and standing at her side for the obligatory half hour following the Announcement of Doom, the duke had promptly disappeared from the gathering.
Naturally, there had been whispers aplenty. Speculation abounded. Ladies offered her their contrived felicitations before no doubt retreating to the shadows and tittering amongst themselves about the hasty nature of the betrothal.
