“And you’re not?” She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, for there was suddenly something deadly in Mr. Goodard’s eyes.
He leaned toward her. “Think what you will about me, but at least I treat women with decency and respect. I don’t toss my mistresses out without a penny the instant I tire of them or, worse, get them with child. No, Miss Smith, I am nothing like Lord Starkly—please don’t make the error of presuming that I am.”
Isabella shuddered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“I know the consequences of dancing more than twice. Had it been up to me, you would have danced with someone else, but Lord Winston, as you can see, is about to dance with his wife, as is Lord Huntley. As for Kingsborough ... I’ve no idea where he is, for I cannot see him anywhere.” He met her gaze. “Fret not, Miss Smith. This is a masquerade, after all, we are in the country and you are not familiar to anyone. In fact, it won’t surprise me in the least if after this evening none of us here ever lays eyes on you again.”
Isabella stared back at him, shocked by his observation. She swallowed hard and then nodded. Whatever the case, dancing three sets with Mr. Goodard was surely more favorable than having to dance a single one with Lord Starkly. Taking up her position for what unfortunately promised to be another waltz, she felt Mr. Goodard’s hand upon her waist just as a deep voice rumbled from behind her.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing, Casper?” It was the duke who’d spoken, and he did not sound the least bit pleased. Turning her head, Isabella gasped. He looked just about ready to kill somebody.
As if Mr. Goodard had just discovered that Isabella was infected with the plague, he released her and stepped back. “Thank God you’re here,” he said, his features relaxing with visible relief. “I was beginning to fear for my freedom.”
“Not as much as I was beginning to worry about your intentions. Really, Casper, you know three dances with the same woman is unacceptable.”
“Of course I do, but what choice did I have with Lord Starkly preparing to pounce on her. Frankly, I can’t imagine what you were thinking inviting him here in the first place. You know what he’s like, and to submit poor Miss Smith here”—they both directed a gaze toward Isabella, who was feeling rather like a piece of rope in a game of tug-of-war—“was unthinkable. I tried to locate you, but you were nowhere to be seen, while both your brother and brother-in-law are occupied with their wives.”
The duke averted his gaze from Mr. Goodard for a moment, frowned and said, “So they are.”
“All in all,” Mr. Goodard continued, “I think I did the right thing considering the circumstances, but now that you’re here, I do suggest you take over while I enjoy a much-needed brandy. Miss Smith,” he added, bowing toward Isabella, “thank you for your company. It was a delightful pleasure.” And then he hurried off before either of them could say anything further.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” the duke said as he pulled Isabella toward him, placing his hand against her waist as he guided her forward to the first tunes of the waltz. A flutter of nerves settled in the pit of her stomach in response to his closeness. And the way he was looking at her ... there was an elemental possessiveness behind his eyes that made her heart beat faster and her legs turn to jelly. Thank God he was holding onto her, for she feared that if he hadn’t been, she’d have collapsed to the floor. “As noble as his intentions might have been, Mr. Goodard was about to make a very serious mistake. I had no choice but to intervene.”
“I see,” Isabella said as he twirled her about. “Then it really is fortuitous that you were there to prevent it—particularly since I’d hate having to explain to Mr. Goodard that I’m practically engaged to someone else. I daresay it would have been detrimental to his ego, not to mention that it would in all likelihood have ruined my own reputation.”
“It’s not a laughing matter,” he said, though the corners of his lips were beginning to edge upward. “I’m being quite serious.”
“Oh, I know,” Isabella replied, smiling sweetly. “So am I.”
The duke laughed. “Miss Smith, what am I to do with you? You’re unlike any lady I’ve ever met before—so free and spirited that I cannot help but wonder...” He stopped himself from saying anything further, but his hold on her tightened as he led her about in a wide circle. “Tell me,” he continued. “This man you intend to marry—do you love him?”
She wanted to say yes, willed herself to do it even, for she knew that it would stop the duke from pursuing her any further. And yet the word wouldn’t come. It remained on the tip of her tongue until she realized that she could not bring herself to say it. “It’s complicated,” she said instead, averting her gaze.
“I wish to court you.” Anthony blurted out the words without thinking. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, for he hadn’t done much elsebutthink—about Miss Smith, that was. He’d done as his mother had asked and had spoken to several of his guests—had even suffered through Lady Deerford’s detailed description of her newly acquired doll. And yet, through it all, he’d been thinking of Miss Smith—her eyes, her smile ... the touch of her thigh beneath the palm of his hand. He’d known her for less than a day, and yet he found himself smitten, though he thought he ought to clarify his sudden statement in case she thought him in love with her. That would be ridiculous—he barely knew her. “What I mean to say is that I’d like to spend more time with you—get to know you better.”
She stared back at him from behind her mask, and he longed for nothing more than to tear it from her face so he could get a proper look at her.
“That’s impossible,” she said, breaking the silence with words he’d no desire to hear, in a voice filled with pain and regret.
“Why, Miss Smith?” He wanted to shake her and make her see that marrying someone she did not love was a terrible idea, no matter the reason for it. “Who is this man? Why do you feel yourself bound to him?”
“I cannot say,” she muttered.
“Look at me,” he said, determined more than ever to change her mind and suddenly willing to risk making a fool of himself in the bargain if that was what it would take. She was too special, too perfect, too ... destined to be his. He felt it deep in his bones like nothing he’d ever felt before, a pure certainty that demanded he do whatever it might take to win her.
Where this notion came from, he couldn’t imagine, but it was there, as real as the fact that he was dancing with her right now. It took a moment for her to comply, but then she did, and there was pain in her eyes that tore at his heart. “I’m a duke, Miss Smith. Don’t tell me that if I come to call on you your parents will send me away. Don’t tell me that should I offer to marry you, your father will say no, all because of an understanding you might have with some other gentleman.”
The music faded and they glided to a slow halt. He bowed before her while she in return curtsied, but when he straightened himself, he noted that her eyes were glistening. Bloody hell, he’d made her cry. “Forgive me,” he muttered as he steered her toward a set of open doors at the side and toward the hallway beyond. He had to speak with her in private ... had to make her see that she was making a mistake—one that could still be averted.
Chapter 7
“Where are we going?” he heard her ask as he pulled her along behind him.
Her voice sounded wary, and rightly so. After all, he was leading her away from the ballroom with the inappropriate intention of getting her completely alone where no one would be likely to disturb them. “In here,” he said, ushering her into a room as he swiftly closed and locked the door behind him. It was his library—his sanctuary—a place where he could just relax and be himself. Turning around, he found Miss Smith eyeing him as if he’d been a no-good pirate who’d just asked her to sail the seven seas. Not exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.
Intent on putting her at ease, he said the first thing that popped into his head. “What’s your favorite food, Miss Smith?”
He saw her frown, as if she was examining his motive for posing such an absurd question. But then her expression eased and she said, “Strawberries, Your Grace. Not baked in a pie or turned to jam, but fresh, plump, juicy strawberries.”
