“That’s very specific.”
“I’ve had time to imagine all the ways this could go wrong since I’ve taken lessons for the past four weeks.” He glanced down at her, something vulnerable in his expression. “Are you sure you want to risk it?”
“Absolutely not. But I’m doing it anyway.”
His mouth curved. “Reckless.”
“Apparently.”
They entered the ballroom, and Margaret’s breath caught. She’d forgotten how beautiful it was. Chandeliers dripping with crystals. Walls lined with gilt mirrors that multiplied the candlelight into something golden and warm.
And people. So many people. All turning to look at them.
At her.
Margaret’s steps faltered.
“Second thoughts?” the duke asked quietly.
“Seventh or eighth thoughts, actually.”
“We could leave. Pretend I developed a sudden headache. I can manage very convincing cringing. I’ve been practicing.”
Despite her nerves, she laughed. “You’ve been practicing cringing?”
“A duke must be prepared for all social emergencies.”
“Is that in the handbook?”
“There’s no handbook. That’s the problem.” He drew her closer—not improper, just… near enough that she could smell the now more familiar sandalwood and something masculine that made her want to lean in. “But if there were, I imagine it would include instructions for rescuing ladies from dances they’re dreading.”
“I’m not dreading it.”
“You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”
“I look like a widow who’s about to be judged by every matron in this room for daring to appear happy.”
His expression darkened. “Then let them judge. You deserve to be happy.”
The words hit her square in the chest. No one had said that to her. Never. Not in all the months of grief-acting and pity-accepting and performing appropriate widowhood.
You deserve to be happy.
Her throat tightened. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“Perhaps not. But I know enough to see you’ve been carrying something heavy. And I think you deserve to set it down. Even if it’s just for one dance.”
The musicians began the opening notes of a waltz and the duke’s hand found her waist.
Margaret stopped breathing.
His other hand held hers, raised to the proper position. She could only focus on the warmth of his palm against her ribs. The slight pressure of his fingers. The way he looked at her—not with pity, not with judgment, but with something that looked like anticipation.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Not even remotely.”
“Perfect. Neither am I.”
