The music grew louder. The opening strains of a country dance drifted through the doorway, beckoning.
“I should warn you,” he continued, “I’m absolutely terrible at it. I’ll probably step on your feet. Possibly embarrass us both. Definitely confuse a quadrille with a waltz at some point.”
Her lips curved. “That’s quite a disclaimer.”
“I believe in honesty.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
The music grew louder. More insistent. As if the very air between them was pulling them toward the ballroom.
“So?” He stood. Offered his hand. “Will you risk it? Will you dance with a duke who doesn’t know what he’s doing?”
She stared at his hand. At him. At the doorway where music and candlelight and possibility waited.
For a breathless moment, she didn’t move.
Then slowly—so slowly—she placed her hand in his.
Heat shot through him at the contact. Her palm fit perfectly against his.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice steady despite the color in her cheeks. Despite the way her pulse jumped visibly at her throat. “Yes, Henry. I’ll dance with you.”
The music rose, and everything else fell away.
CHAPTER 4
Dance? Margaret’s heart kicked against her ribs. The Duke of Dashfield—this man who’d just confessed to conversing with deaf women and having strong opinions about aspic—had asked her to call him Henry and dance.
And she’d said yes.
Oh the scandal! What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been. That was the problem. She’d been feeling. Laughing. Actually enjoying herself for the first time in months or more. And now she’d agreed to something that would put her on display in front of everyone.
A widow. Dancing. With a duke.
The gossips would have a field day.
But when she looked at him—really looked at him—she found herself not caring quite as much as she should.
His face struck her in a way it absolutely shouldn’t. Strong jaw. Pale blue eyes that held hers a beat too long. Dark hair that looked as if he’d dragged his fingers through it more than once this evening, leaving it charmingly disheveled.
And his body. Tall. Lean. Every line of him radiating barely-contained tension despite the perfectly tailored evening clothes.
Control yourself, Maggie. You’re a widow. Act like one.
Except she’d been acting like a widow for three years now, and she was exhausted. And this man—this nervous, rambling, unexpectedly kind man—made her want to stop pretending. Just for an hour. Just for one dance.
“Shall we?” The duke offered his hand.
Margaret stared at his long fingers. No rings except a signet on his smallest finger that looked too large, as if it had belonged to someone else first.
As soon as she placed her hand in his,heat shot up her arm. His fingers closed around hers and he drew her to her feet with grace.
“I should warn you,” he murmured as he led her toward the ballroom, “I wasn’t exaggerating about my dancing skills. Or lack thereof.”
“How bad are we talking?” Margaret asked, acutely aware that his hand was still holding hers. Warm. Steady. “Will I need some ice for my toes?”
“Possibly. Also your dignity. I may step on your hem. I will definitely confuse the steps at some point.”
