Who knows? Perhaps I shall find a match of my own.
CHAPTER 16
“Your dancing is indeed quite remarkable, Miss Kingman,” Alistair spoke, his voice slightly strained as he guided the impassive lady in his arms across the floor. He attempted to maintain eye contact, but his gaze kept drifting, finding distractions in the crowd.
“Thank you, Your Grace. You are most talented as well,” Diana replied, her voice soft and barely above a whisper.
She glanced down, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink, a nice contrast to the beautiful shade of lavender dress she had on that complemented her fair complexion. The fabric flowed around her like water, accentuating her graceful movements.
Alistair cleared his throat, trying to shake off the awkwardness that hung in the air like a thick fog. “I’ve heard you play the pianoforte beautifully. Perhaps you could play for me sometime?”
He hoped the compliments would spark some enthusiasm, but instead, Diana's eyes widened slightly, and she seemed to retreat further into herself.
“Oh, certainly, if His Grace wishes it, it would be an honor,” her tone lacked emotion as she spoke. “However, I hope I can live up to His Grace’s expectations, I am but inexperienced in the art…” She trailed off, her gaze dropping back to the polished floor, as if searching for an escape route.
Alistair felt a knot tightening in his stomach. “I’m certain you’re more than good enough,” he insisted, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I’ve heard whispers of your talent.” He tried to sound genuine, but the words felt hollow, echoing in the awkward silence that followed.
Diana’s response was a polite nod, her expression still shy and reserved. “That’s very kind of you to say, Your Grace.”
Alistair tried to hide his frown. She was saying all the right words. And if it were a couple months ago he met her, he likely would have felt glad for it. However, now, he felt the way she spoke made him feel as if he were conversing with a porcelain doll—beautiful yet fragile, utterly devoid of any spark.
None of that should matter. She would make a wonderful duchess.
Yet, as they continued to dance, Alistair found himself stumbling over his words, desperately searching for something—anything—that could bridge the growing chasm between them. He could barely recognize himself.
“And your dance skills,” he ventured, his voice faltering. “You seem to glide across the floor.”
“Glide, yes,” she echoed, a faint smile gracing her lips, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I suppose it’s just practice.” Another pause settled between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Alistair cleared his throat again, feeling the tension stretch like a taut string ready to snap.
“Indeed, practice,” he murmured, wishing he could retreat into the crowd. The silence felt like a weight pressing down on him, each second stretching into an eternity, filled only with the sound of their footsteps and the distant laughter of others enjoying the evening.
Diana shifted slightly, her delicate frame barely moving as she clung to the edges of her composure. Alistair could sense her discomfort, and it mirrored his own, creating an invisible barrier that neither of them could breach. Their chemistry felt nonexistent, as if they were two ships passing in the night.
Just then, amongst every other, Alistair heard a familiar laughter, a sound like the tinkling of delicate chimes, and couldn’t help but be drawn to it. Despite his body moving rhythmically with Diana, each step felt mechanical, as if he were merely a puppet dancing on strings.
His heart raced, and a tightness constricted his chest as his gaze landed on Cecilia. She stood across the room, her presence magnetic, with cascading waves of her dark hair that caught the light, framing her porcelain face.
Her eyes sparkled with near mischief, and her smile radiated warmth, illuminating the space around her. She looked all too dashing in her gown of deep emerald that accentuated her slender figure, flowing gracefully as she moved, each gesture imbued with a natural elegance that captivated everyone nearby.
Alistair watched with horror as his eyes finally took note of a gentleman next to her with a confident smirk on his lips. The man leaned in, seeming to whisper something that made Cecilia laugh again, and a pang of jealousy sliced through Alistair's entire being.
Who in all the gods’ name is he?!
The man reached for her hand, and Alistair's breath caught. In that moment, the world around him blurred into insignificance. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but the sight of her delicate fingers intertwining with the stranger’s felt like a betrayal.
His mind raced, an internal storm brewing as he struggled to repress the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
“Your Grace?”
He glanced back at Diana, who continued to sway with him, her demeanor timid, her eyes downcast as if she sensed the tension radiating from him.
Diana’s presence felt like a distant echo, and Alistair realized he had completely shifted his focus away from her. She stepped gently to the music, her movements soft and elegant, yet they seemed to fade into the background against the vivid tableau of Cecilia and her dance partner.
“Yes, I, uh, may I have your next dance as well?”
Alistair’s heart ached as he took Diana’s hand once more, his eyes trained on watching Cecilia’s laughter, a sound that once brought him amusement, echo the floor as she leaned into the random man as their dance began, her head tilted back in laughter in conversation.
The jealousy boiled within him, a bitter concoction of longing and frustration. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to intervene, to pull her away from the man who seemed to claim her attention so effortlessly.
