“But—But—”
Ashmore cracked his knuckles.
Blackmore paled.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, for having offended you with my proposal and er— kiss.”
“Keep a three-yard distance to her from now on. If I catch you encroaching on a space that is any less than that, you will answer to me personally.”
Blackmore backed away. “I say. Ashmore.”
“Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir. Three yards.” He cleared his throat, straightened his coat and went back to the ballroom.
“In a way,I feel sorry for him.” Lucy watched him retreat. “He seemed quitedesperate to find a wife for his children.”
“Yes. But not you.” That came across as a command. Lucy’s head whipped up. “You are too good for him.”
“I am?” A wistful little smile flitted over her face. “If only that were so.”
“Of course, you are. You have too low an opinion of yourself.” He took her hand in his and inspected her knuckles. “This needs to be tended to.”
“He has a head like granite,” Lucy agreed.
He gently blew on her knuckles.
The little hairs on Lucy’s neck stood on end. She held her breath.
The strings of the first waltz drifted out into the garden.
“Come dance with me,” his voice was husky.
“I—am supposed to be dancing this waltz with Finbar,” Lucy muttered, unable to tear her eyes from him.
“Hang Finbar.” Ashmore drew her close, holding her right hand in his and placing his other hand on her shoulder.
He twirled her around under the cherry tree and Lucy felt she’d never experienced anything lovelier or more romantic. He looked down on her, and there was something unreadable in his eyes.
For one moment she allowed herself to dream. What would it be like if she were his duchess? No Lady Louisa with land, no compromise, no honour-bound duty. What if he married her because he loved her? Maybe it could work. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be married to—Henry.
When the music ended, he still kept holding her in his arms.
Lucy lifted her face and she heard her voice say, huskily, dreamlike and disembodied: “I think I will kiss you.”
She lifted herself up on her toes and pressed her lips against his. Warm, soft, spicy. It was perfect. Then she wanted to run, before her brain comprehended the full implications of what she’d just done. Again.
He drew her back to him. This time he took her face in his hands and lowered his lips to hers. It was not soft and gentle, but deep and urgent. His fingers caressed the silken skin of her nape.
Lucy trembled. She clung to him, kissing him back as if her life depended on it.
They were like two sides of the same coin, Henry and the duke. You couldn’t love one without the other.
Then realisation hit her.
She’d been so busy hating him, that she hadn’t realised she’d been yearning herself sick for this man with every fibre of her body.
Heaven help her, she was in love with Henry, the duke.
