The way he drew back and his eyes widened, it seemed that statement shocked him. “And why is that?”
“I have not danced since my husband died,” she said softly.
He moved a little closer. It was all entirely acceptable. From across the room no one would think that something had shifted or that they were being inappropriate, but she knew. The air between them somehow felt thicker, hotter, and his gaze focused and steady on hers. “Not even once?”
Were they still talking about dancing or something else? She supposed it didn’t matter, as the answer was the same. “Not even once.”
The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly as if he were…relieved? Why, she couldn’t say. It shouldn’t matter to him who she danced with…or slept with, if that was what they were now talking about. He didn’t know her. He certainly couldn’t…want her. Not really. Wasn’t this all her lonely imagination gone wild? Some fantasy she’d created after watching Valaria blossom under the attentions of Callum, or all the possibilities that always hung between Bernadette and Theo?
She stepped back. “If you’d like to dance with me at a future event, I suppose you'll have to come find me. And now I see my butler coming in to announce supper.” She raised her voice for the room to hear. “Will you all join me in the dining room?”
Roarke hesitated a moment. As duchess she ought to have been escorted by the highest ranking in the room and she knew it. She knew if she turned to Callum or Theo that either would offer his assistance, as was proper. But she didn’t want Callum or Theo, so she cleared her throat.
“Will you take me, Mr. Desmond?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, and held out his arm for her. She took it, feeling her fingers close against firm, warm muscle. Once again her body betrayed her, and with great effort she somehow managed not to sigh. She was becoming too obvious.
She just had to get herself together and remember her place. A place that very likely had almost nothing to do with this man.
* * *
Roarke had felt the pulsing attraction between he and Flora in the parlor before supper. He was no monk, he could tell when a lady wanted him. He could hear it in their breath and see it in their posture and expression. She had exhibited all of that and it had called to him in a way he knew was only trouble.
So the fact that she had avoided him ever since should have pleased him. At supper she had been polite, of course, the consummate hostess, but she hadn’t lingered on him or asked too many questions. Afterward, she had asked Theo to escort her to the parlor for games and port as a group. She was never alone in conversation with Roarke.
But there was no relief, only regret that followed that set of facts. Helikedtalking to Flora. The years since his father’s death, since his own foolish mistakes, had been painful. Lonely. Desperate. But being in the same room with this woman made that seem…distant for a little while.
He liked watching her light up, liked feeling her warmth like she was a candle in the night. He found himself wanting to chat with her more, about the world and people, about books and plays. To know her better, outside of the cruel errand his cousins had sent him on.
God, his errand. Hadn’t he gathered enough information? He didn’t believe Flora had ever taken a lover, not during or since her marriage. She had no engagement on the horizon, awaiting the moment she snatched away the money due to her on the three-year anniversary of her late husband’s death. He would have bet his life on that fact.
Which meant his time with her would come to an end. He would make his report, his cousins would object and then steel themselves to paying her the extra funds their father’s will required. They would pay him and give him a little more of a buffer for his mother’s comfort.
This would be over.
He should let it be over.
Slowly he pushed off the fireplace where he had been standing since the group had finished a rousing game of charades, and moved toward Flora. She was also standing alone just then and she swallowed hard at his approach.
“It has been a lovely night,” he said softly. “But I think it is time for me to go.”
She blinked several times but then nodded. “I understand.” She gave him what looked to be a forced smile and said to the group, “Mr. Desmond is the first to surrender. I shall walk him to the foyer.”
He said his goodbyes to the rest of the group, finding them all friendly, even the hesitant ladies. It would be fun to be part of their circle like he had been tonight. Something else that could not be.
When he had finished, Flora motioned him toward the door. While a servant called for his horse, they stood together on the top step of her landing, cool autumn breeze stirring her hair and sending that warm scent of rosebuds to his nose again. God, but he wished he could surround himself in that, feel it permeate his skin and his mind and his soul.
A ridiculous notion.
“It was so nice of you to come tonight,” she said, shifting slightly, worrying her hands like she was nervous.
He cleared his throat and then a question he had never intended to ask her tumbled from his lips. “Do you know the portrait painter, Ezra Pembroke?”
She blinked. “I…yes. I’ve seen several of his works…well, his public works.”
He barely held back a little groan. So she knew about the celebrated artists private works, which were known to be erotic. That made his cock throb for a moment. “Er, well there is an exhibit of hispublicwork at the Royal Museum. It just started. Would you like to…to accompany me to it on Monday afternoon?”
Her eyes went wide and she gaped for a moment, as if she were trying to process the question. As if she might not understand. “I…I…”
