Vanessa's cheeks heated. "This is hardly appropriate conversation."
"No. It isn't." He stepped closer, not enough to cause comment, but enough that she could smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from his body. "But I want you to understand something. I have never been interested in Lady Portsmith. I have never been tempted by her offers. I have never wanted what she so persistently makes available."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to know." His voice dropped, meant only for her ears. "I want you to know that when I look at you, I am not comparing you to her. I am not weighing options. I am not considering alternatives."
Her heart was pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it. "Martin…"
"The supper waltz," he said, stepping back to a proper distance. "Don't forget."
He bowed and withdrew, immediately absorbed by another cluster of admirers who had been waiting for his attention. Vanessa watched him go, her mind reeling, her body humming with something that felt dangerously like hope.
Helena appeared at her elbow. "Well. That was interesting."
"Was it?"
"The way he looked at you versus the way he looked at Lady Portsmith? Utterly different species of expression." Helena fanned herself. "If Lord Deane had any sense, he'd withdraw his suit immediately."
"Lord Deane has plenty of sense."
"Then he's choosing not to use it." Helena's smile was knowing. "Because any simpleton can see that Montehood is utterly besotted. And if I'm not mistaken, you are too."
Vanessa did not deny it. There was no point. Helena knew her too well, and besides, she was tired of denying it. Tired of pretending. Tired of lying to herself about what she felt and what she wanted.
She wanted Martin. She had always wanted Martin.
And tonight, for the first time, she was beginning to believe he might want her too.
***
The hours crawled by with excruciating slowness.
Vanessa danced with a parade of partners, young men, old men, wedded men and the fortune hunters.
She wore the mask of enjoyment and spoke with easy elegance, though her spirit was evidently engaged in Martin.
She noted his movements throughout the room, wondering if he was thinking about her as much as she was of him.
He was…she was certain of it. Every time she glanced in his direction, she found him already looking at her. Their eyes would meet, hold for a charged moment, then separate, only to find each other again minutes later.
It was a dance more intimate than any they could perform on the ballroom floor.
She watched him charm a group of elderly matrons, making them laugh and blush like debutantes. She watched him navigate a conversation with a foreign ambassador, switching effortlessly from English to French to what sounded like Italian. She watched him accept congratulations from a young man whose sister he had apparently helped secure a favorable match, the gratitude in the young man's voice unmistakable.
This was Martin in his element, the consummate aristocrat, the perfect duke. He wore his power as easily as he wore his evening clothes, wielding it with a skill that seemed almost effortless. People gravitated toward him not just because of his title, but because of something less tangible: a magnetism, a charisma, a quality of attention that made every person he spoke with feel like the most important person in the room.
And yet.
And yet, every few minutes, his gaze would seek hers across the crowded ballroom. And when their eyes met, the mask would slip just for an instant, revealing something raw and hungry beneath.
He was thinking of her. He was counting the minutes until they could be together again.
So was she.
Lord Deane claimed her for a quadrille, his manner was somewhat subdued. He had noticed the supper waltz, of course. He had seen Martin write his name on her card, had understoodthe significance of it. And now, his usual cheerful confidence had given way to something more uncertain.
"You and Lord Montehood are well acquainted," he observed as the dance brought them together.
