“Thank you for your kind regard, Lord Pembroke,” I say as I accept the glass.
“It is my pleasure, I assure you.”
I sip the contents in my glass. It is first tart, then sweet, upon my tongue. “You did not err in your judgement, sir, it is quite refreshing indeed.”
“I am pleased you find it so.”
The polite niceties observed, my gaze is drawn back to the floor where the unmarried young women and men of the ton dance the quadrille.
“I hope you do not mind my saying—you were a vision on the dance floor.”
I do not look away as the ladies spin and twirl in unison. “Thank you, my lord, it is most kind of you say so.”
“Not at all,” he murmurs.
“I did not know how I would miss it,” I admit before I even realize my own feelings. Shock fills me at not only speaking so familiarly, but with a man I never have shared my thoughts with before.
I needn’t have worried. Lord Pembroke looks back with gentleness that is most underserved. “You need not miss it, Your Grace. You are married, not suddenly lame, I trust?”
The softness of his smile prompts one in return. “Not that I am aware of, my lord.”
“Very well. Would you care to have your glass refreshed?”
“If she does, her husband shall see to it.”
If my ears did not know the seductive timbre of his deep voice, my womb tightens at the words.
Lord Pembroke inclines his head. “Of course, Your Grace. How lovely to see you.” He withdraws without a word, or nary a glance.
It matters not. From the moment I hear my husband, my breath catches and my entire body tightens into a vise I have become quite accustomed to.
“My lady, if you are quite finished with your refreshment, I thought we might take a turn around the dance floor.”
These words capture my attention like few others can. “You… you are in earnest, Your Grace?”
He smiles and offers me his muscular arm. “One of these days, you must call me by my name, my lady. We are wed, after all.”
A pleasant tingling heat warms my cheeks. Still in disbelief, I put my hand in his and allow myself to be led to the dance floor to join the other couples. Even before the music begins, the beginnings of excitement cause my pulse to quicken, echoed by the way my blood sings through my veins.
“You look radiant this evening, my dear, in case I failed to tell you earlier.”
The rapidly growing inferno in the pit of my stomach spirals out in tendrils to fill the rest of my being before that searing warmth travels lower. Before I can thank him, the first notes of the violins tremble through the air.
It is well known that the Crown Prince does not dance, so his sister, the Princess Amelia is at the front of the line standing across from a French nobleman. The two of them begin the dance, with the princess covering her mouth to hide a smile at something the gentleman has said to her.
I face my partner and find his gaze already upon me, bearing into me with a gravity that makes me feel off-balance. Illuminated by candlelight, his handsome features appear even more arresting. I wish to look away so that I might steady my nerves, lest I forget the steps, but I cannot seem to, no matter how much sense tells me I should.
A small smile plays on his lips, and I feel my heart flutter. Then it is our turn to join the dance. The duke and I join hands, and a fission of shock jolts me so that I nearly drop his hand but remember myself just in time. He turns me around in time to the music, and when I take my place once more, the way he regards me is enough to leave me breathless.
It is the child… I should take nourishment… or drink…
But it is a hollow list of falsehoods. I cannot deny it any longer. Clearly, against my own caution and every whisper of wisdom, I am yielding to his man. It is maddening! It is illogical! And yet…I take in his face, trace his features once more, and my palms dampen.
I can acknowledge the truth to myself. But His Grace can never know.He will become even more insufferable if he does.I stand up straighter, stiffened with resolve.His Grace is stubborn, but so am I. Why should I be the first to confess amorous feelings?
I step forward and join hands with him once more, as the dance demands.
“Are you quite well, wife?” There is no hint of mockery or derision. Only soft concern that gives me pause.
