“Your Grace,” he greeted, adopting a tone meant to charm. “Might I persuade you to honor me with the next dance?”
Beatrice opened her mouth. She wasn’t even sure whether she intended to accept or decline, but before she could utter a syllable, another voice cut smoothly between them.
“No.”
Edward stood at her side, entirely calm, and offered his hand.
“Duchess,” he said, his eyes steady on her, “I believe you owe me a dance.”
Beatrice felt the world tilt.
The bold young man blinked in surprise, bowing stiffly. “Of-Of course, Your Grace.”
Edward didn’t spare him a second glance. His attention was entirely focused on her.
“Shall we?” he prompted.
“I—” She faltered, because her hand was already moving toward his, as if drawn by a magnet. “Yes,” she heard herself say.
When his fingers palmed the small of her back, the ballroom seemed to fade away, just a little.
Edward inclined his head in the barest acknowledgment and smoothly turned around, guiding her with him.
Behind them, she felt rather than heard the murmurs begin.
He led her toward the dance floor with deliberate ease. She felt the brush of his hand at her back, the faintest pressure guiding her into position as the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz.
A waltz. Of all things.
Her heart gave a sharp, traitorous flutter.
“Of course it is,” she murmured under her breath.
Edward heard her anyway.
“Objection?” he asked lightly.
“Only to the timing,” she replied. “And the audience.”
“Ah,” he said. “Both unavoidable.”
They faced one another. Edward put his hand on her waist. The warmth of it seeped through the silk of her gown as though the fabric were thin as air.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
No. Not remotely.
“Yes,” she answered.
He drew her into motion.
They moved smoothly—he was an excellent dancer, curse him—and the room blurred around them. For a moment, she could almost forget the tension in her shoulders.
But then his gaze settled on hers, and every one of her thoughts tangled hopelessly.
They completed the first turn, her skirts sweeping the floor in a soft arc, and then he spoke, his voice low enough so that only she could hear.
“I have been thinking,” he admitted, “about the baby.”
