“I’m supposed to be confident,” he said. “Dukes don’t fumble with cutlery or ramble about mutton to deaf women. They certainly don’t find themselves completely undone by a woman’s thoughts on peas.”
Her breath caught. “Undone?”
“Utterly.” He shouldn’t say it. Absolutely not. Said it anyway. “You’ve wrecked me, Lady Margaret. I’ll never look at a pea the same way again.”
She laughed again. Softer this time. Her hand came up to cover her mouth, but not before he saw the full force of her dazzlingly gorgeous smile.
Beautiful. She was beautiful when she set aside her grief for a moment.
“You’re wicked,” she said.
“I’m honest.” He held her gaze. “Which I’m told is refreshing.”
“I never said refreshing.”
“You implied it. With your face.”
“My face implied nothing.”
“Your face implied several things. All of them are encouraging.”
Pink flooded her cheeks again. She looked down at her plate. But she kept smiling. Victory surged through him.
“Tell me something else true,” he said. “Something you have never told anyone.”
She looked up and studied him with those amber eyes, clearly deciding whether to trust him.
“I hate aspic,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Everyone pretends to love it, but it’s absolutely vile.”
“Agreed.” He leaned even closer. Near enough that anyone watching would definitely notice. “I thought I was the only one.”
“You’re not alone.”
“Neither are you.” The words came out heavier than he intended, like they meant more than words could convey.
She went very still, her eyes searching his face.
Around them, the dinner party continued. But Henry couldn’t hear it anymore. Couldn’t see anything except her. This woman, who thought peas were hopeful and hated aspic and looked at him like he was worth knowing, not just a title.
“Your Grace,” she said softly.
“Henry,” he corrected her, because for this woman, he didn’t want to pretend to be Dashfield. Whether improper or scandalous, he just wanted to be Henry to her. Just his name.
“Henry,” she whispered, barely audible except to him. It sounded like the beginning of something.
Around them, the dinner was ending. Servants cleared plates. Guests rose from their seats, the hum of conversation shifted. Anticipation built.
The swell of music floated in from the ballroom—strings tuning, a pianoforte testing notes as the musicians prepared for the evening’s dancing.
Margaret heard it, and her eyes flickered toward the sound. Something crossed her face—longing, maybe. Or fear.
Henry’s heart kicked.
Now or never.
“Margaret,” he said. Her name meant more to him than her title, although it was scandalously inappropriate of him to use it. She rewarded him with a dark-eyed batting of her lashes that made any scandal worth it. “Will you dance with me?”
Her head snapped up to his. Eyes wide. He’d startled her.
