“I can leave, if you so desire.”
“Nonsense! The balcony is big enough for the two of us,” I murmur, but the words are merely rote. It would be better for me if he left, yet I cannot find the courage to say so.
“Very well then. Were you enjoying yourself, my lady? You make quite the study in elegance as you dance.”
I have heard such things long before I could understand their meaning. Lord Greyonyx—ahem, His Grace of Fairwynd, apparently—is merely being polite, reading from the same script we have all been forced to memorize. Yet, my pulse begins a steady skip despite what my head knows to be true.
‘Tis no cause for alarm. He has a pleasing face, a nice smile. Nothing more.
To my horror, I realize I have left him waiting for an answer, but I find myself incapable of recalling what we have even been speaking about. “Thank you, my lord.”
Instead of looking satisfied, he takes a step toward me, his eyes fastened upon me as though he can peer past the fabric of my dress and corset and see into my very soul.
I find it most unsettling. My mouth dries, and my stomach spasms. “I really should return,” I somehow manage to say between barely moving lips. “Lord Pembroke shall?—”
“Let Lord Pembroke find another way to amuse himself for a time, hmm?”
He is standing too close, the two of us out of sight, and me without a chaperone. My mother will be horrified.
A very large part ofmeis horrified, and yet, I cannot seem to force my feet to move. He stands aside, the perfect picture of gentlemanly elegance—his wide shoulders filling out his jacket, tapered down his strong chest…
Then, realizing I have been observing his chest, I snap my gaze back up to his face. His smile curves and is slightly mocking.
I have been caught. It is evident in the sardonic lift of his lip, the way his eyes light up with amusement. The heat in my cheeks intensifies and I tear my eyes away from him and turn my head so that I can look out over the balcony.
There is a beautiful garden below, and I focus on it, hoping my thoughts will follow suit. There are manicured hedges bordering the gravel walking paths. I count three such paths, each with their own ornament. One has pink and white rosebushes. The second has pots of fragrant herbs along the path. The third boasts a reflecting pool resplendent with water lilies and marsh marigolds. All the paths converge at a stone statue of Hercules.
What the devil is the matter with me?My heart is thudding hard against the wall of my chest. I gaze across the deep navy of the sky, lit by the silver light from the moon, and glittering with a scattering of stars, I try to calm my heart.Breathe, Freya. But the damned corset is too tight. I must let my lady’s maid know not to lace it so tightly next time.
A sweep of a finger gliding across my glove makes me jump. I turn to face him, my chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.What is he playing at?
“Careful,” he murmurs. There is no contrition in his tone for his breech of protocol—only soft amusement. “If you were to fall, who would enchant the ballroom with her elegant performance?”
He is making fun of me, which casts him in a different light, and not the flattering one courtesy of the moon.
“It isyouwho should be careful, my lord,” I snap as I snatch away my hand. “You are playing a dangerous game. I am to be married.”
“To Lord Pembroke,” he says, and it isn’t a question. Yet, it does not trouble him, if his relaxed countenance is any indication.
Which only confirms that he is toying with me. I am horrified that, for a moment, I nearly fell victim to his charms. “Yes, to Lord Pembroke.” My voice does not carry the gentle refinement a lady ought to have—at this too, my mother would be astonished—but he has earned my displeasure.
“Forgive me, my lady, I must have missed the announcement of your betrothal.”
There is no contrition in his gaze, nor upon his face. I know I should go back inside, but I cannot seem to make my body comply with my good sense.
“Perhaps the gentleman has changed his mind? Perhaps you wish him to?”
I gasp at his presumptive nature, then clasp a hand to my mouth, furious with myself for giving him the satisfaction.
Indeed, his eyes leap, and I despise him for mocking me, even if he does so without a word.
“You overstep, Your Grace.” My words are acidic, but he does not seem to notice. “It will be announced this very night.”
The duke leans against the balcony, eyeing me as though he is indifferent. “Yet, your spirits seem less bright than usual. What is the cause, I wonder?”
I narrow my eyes at him. He steps dangerously close to impertinence. “Whom, my lord.”
A dark eyebrow lifts even as his smile widens. “Whom, then.”
