“Your Grace,” she said, offering the man a small curtsy as he replaced Lord Beaton.
“My Lady,” he responded, dipping his head before he stepped directly in front of her. For the first time Emmaline saw the reason why they called himThe Scarred Duke.
The one side of his face was a patchwork of silver burn scars that decorated right down to his cravat, and Emmaline suspected disappeared further beneath his blue shirt.
The scars were mesmerizing, intriguing, painfully beautiful. They told a story that she so desperately wished to know she almost burst right out and asked how he had come by them. Her fingertips itched to trace every fine line, feeling the story unfold beneath her hand.
“Has anyone ever told you, My Lady, that it is quite rude to stare?” the duke asked, holding her hand and pulling her close to him with his other hand at the small of her back.
“And has anybody ever told you it is rude to frighten someone out of their wits and steal a dance for no good reason?” Emmaline responded bravely.
The healthy side of the duke's face twitched upwards in a smile and again she was fascinated by his wounds and the way that side of his face barely moved.
Somehow the scars made him all the more handsome. They made him real. They made him touchable, not at all like the grand high and mighty dukes she was used to.
“You are a feisty young lady, aren't you?” the duke asked.
Emmaline bit the inside of her lip, struggling to concentrate for the heat she felt where his hands touched her was quite remarkable.
She was a fool. She never should have spoken so openly and yet, it appeared to have amused the duke, and so she decided it best to merely be honest. “I only voice what I have witnessed, Your Grace. And I fear you may have caused Lord Beaton to mess his breeches if he had remained a second longer under your scrutinizing gaze.”
“Scrutinizing, whatever could I have been scrutinizing him for?” the duke asked, his tone incredulous. As they talked, the rest of the world around them seemed to melt away.
“I suspect that is between you and he, Your Grace,” Emmaline said, her head held high even though she feared to look him in the eye. She could not help herself.
They truly were as dark as they had appeared across the ballroom. A deep, dark, charcoal gray, with a hint of brown, that was so close to black it may as well have been the color of a stormy sky.
In fact, if not for the whites of his eyes, he might have looked as if there were two shining lumps of obsidian set in his skull. Perhaps that was why Lord Beaton had looked as if he were looking upon a monster. And yet, somehow, Emmaline couldn't quite see it.
The duke was even more intriguingly handsome up close.
“That it is, My Lady,” he said, and his hand squeezed hers. Through the material of their gloves she felt a shock of warmth and found herself wishing she could remove the material entirely. What must it have been like to touch his bare palm with hers?
The thought made her blush.
“My Lady, I do believe you are blushing,” the duke whispered, leaning forward to say the words into her ear.
He was so close she felt his breath brushing her earlobe, making a strand of her hair tickle her cheek.
“There are a lot of bodies in here,” Emmaline pointed out. “It is quite warm.”
“Perhaps after this dance you might take some air?” the duke suggested, and Emmaline's heart fluttered. Though he hadn't invited her to do so with him, she couldn't help but imagine it. What it must have been like to be alone with such a man.
“Tell me, Lord Westmarch,” she said, trying her utmost to keep her composure, or at least what remained of it. “How are you liking the ball so far?”
“Until now, I admit, I was finding it quite unamusing.”
“And now?” Emmaline asked, breathlessly.
The way the duke met her gaze stole all of her attention and she almost lost herself in his eyes again.
“Now, I find it far more amusing,” the duke said, expertly guiding her around the floor in a way that made her feel light as air. He was strong, powerful, almost primitively predatory in how his voice growled out through his teeth. It set Emmaline’s insides alight in an entirely new experience. He continued, still meeting her gaze, “Though I admit I am at a loss. It appears you know very well who I am, but I have no idea as to your identity.”
“Then how is it, Your Grace, that you come to call me, My Lady?” Emmaline said, chuckling a little as she could not quite bite back her amusement.
The duke raised the brow on the unscarred side of his face and glanced up and down at her. “You look like a lady.”
Emmaline scoffed at that. It was a gut reaction that left her even more embarrassed. “Oh, Your Grace, forgive me but I do not believe anyone has ever said such a thing about me.”
