“Perhaps you might share the name of the modiste that my wife might have something similar made,” the Duke added, amused.
Keaton knew that the Duke and Duchess were older by some ten years than either himself or Georgia. The Duke was laughing, but Keaton detected the sniff of disapproval from his wife. They moved on, continuing to mingle and barely getting a few yards before another introduction was made. Another exclamation about the dress and a few minutes of verbal dueling, albeit good-natured.
“You are drawing attention,” he whispered to her as they drifted to the perimeter of the room after a declaration had been made of dancing to commence.
“Thedressdraws attention. I do not,” Georgia commented.
“I think you would draw attention in a sackcloth,” Keaton replied without thinking.
“…Thank you for the compliment.”
She squeezed his arm, and he grunted.
“I did not intend to flatter. It was a simple statement of fact,” he said brusquely.
“Of course, heaven forbid that you should show me attention.”
“Do you mock me?”
“Yes, does it anger you?”
“Yes.”
Georgia laughed softly. “I feel undressed. Maybe while the dancing is happening, we should find somewhere less… occupied.”
“You mean somewhere with fewer eyes to stare at you,” he chuckled.
He slipped an arm around her waist, unable to keep from touching her as though that would keep her at his side. Or remind her and everyone else of whom she belonged to.
“We are here for a reason, though,” she sighed. “But we cannot dance together.”
“You mean thatIcannot dance. That much is true. But you can,” Keaton replied.
Her silence and the shifting of her body told him she was staring at him. He smiled, looking towards her so she could look into his eyes.
“You cannot mean that.”
“It is far from unusual for a wife to accept a dance with another man at these occasions. It is expected even. We are all friends here, and a dance is perfectly innocent, is it not?”
“I would have thought it would induce jealousy,” Georgia said, uncertainly.
“What should I be jealous of?” Keaton replied, holding his emotions in tight check.
“That another man is holding me close,” she pointed out, directly.
Keaton took a deep breath. He reached out, finding Georgia’s waist and drawing her closer to him. The feel of the sheer fabric beneath his hand was intoxicating. The idea of any other man seeing her like this, let alone touching her, was maddening. But she was correct. They were here for a reason, and abandoning the ball now or ceasing to participate would be a recipe for scandal.
He leaned towards her as he spoke, quite unconsciously. He felt her rapid breath flutter upon his face. He stroked her cheek, feeling the heat flaring up. Imagined bright eyes fixed on his own, her lips parted. He skillfully darted a touch across her lips, feeling her bite her lower lip. His body responded to the image that conjured, of beauty and innocence. Of experience hidden beneath the façade of naivety.
“Westvale, I wondered if I might request your wife’s hand for this dance,” Bath exclaimed, approaching. “My own wife is taking a turn around the floor with the Duke of Cornwall.”
“But of course, Your Grace,” Georgia replied brightly, “I should be honored.”
Her words were pointed. Keaton could feel their tips like needles as she left his side. He imagined her smiling up at the older man, entirely properly of course. Jealousy surged within him. Fury surged at his own infirmity, without whichhewould be the one dancing with Georgia. He bit back the urge to refuse, to demand that Georgia leave with him. It would undo all their hard work.
Keaton told himself that the proof would be when she eventually returned to him. When they were alone, and he could reclaim her.
“May I say that you make a beautiful pair, Your Grace,” came a too-close voice with a strong French accent.
