“Thank you, Miss St. Claire.” He gave Franny and Prue a polite nod and led Rose to the floor. Every eye in the ballroom was upon them, but she forgot the curious stares soon enough and melted into his arms.
There wasn’t a single person in this ballroom whose gaze mattered more to her than his.
And his gaze . . . oh, she might have drowned in those smoky gray eyes! How had she ever imagined his eyes were cold? They were soft now whenever he looked at her, a deep, warm glow in their depths.
It was his eyes that had gotten her through the long hours since their passionate encounter at Hammond Court. They hadn’t spoken much since then, just a few snatches of polite conversation here and there, but his gaze followed her everywhere, and when she spoke to any of the other guests, he turned his head to listen to her.
“You shouldn’t have worn that gown tonight, Rose.” His voice was quiet, his palm warm and steady against the arch of her back.
She peeked up at him from under her lashes. “Do you not like my gown, Your Grace?”
“I like it very much, indeed. Rather too much. But every gentleman in the ballroom tonight is looking at you, and now I’ll be obliged to challenge them all to duels.” His lips twitched. “It’s not quite the thing, fighting duels on Christmas Day.”
Was he . . . goodness, was heflirtingwith her? “Duels! Why should you challenge them all to duels?”
He didn’t answer at once, merely gazed down at her, the smile still on his lips. They moved through the figures of the dance, his gloved fingertips grazing hers. “Don’t you know?” he murmured at last. “Because you’re mine, Rose.”
His. It was a small word, and spoken so softly, but that single, tiny word might have been an epic romantic poem for the way it exploded inside her heart.
His. It was, above all things, what she wanted to be.
A dozen questions spun in her head. What did it mean, for her to be his? Was he hers, as well? What of Lady Emily? But not a single one of them made it past her lips.
They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, but him.
Everyone else—Francesca and Prue, Lord Dunwitty, Lady Emily, even the ballroom itself, all faded to nothing. There was just the two of them, the music swelling around them, the candlelight and curious faces blurring before her eyes as he took her through the dance, her hand tucked snugly into his, and his strong fingers resting on her waist.
She was in love with him. She’d fallen in love with the Duke of Grantham.
All she wanted was to remain in his arms—for the rest of this dance, and all the dances that came afterward. For this moment, and for all the moments yet to unfold.
But all too soon the music came to an end. The other couples in the set separated and began making their way off the dance floor. For an instant, she and Max remained still, and let the world move around them, but then his fingers tightened around hers. “Will you save another dance for me, Miss St. Claire?”
“I’ll save all my dances for you, Your Grace.” Dear God, had she said thataloud? She dropped her gaze, her cheeks burning, but his soft laugh made her glance up at him again.
“Soon, Rose. Very soon.”
He placed her hand on his arm and led her from the dance floor back to Francesca and Prue. They were standing with their husbands, both of them wearing wide smiles, like two satisfied cats who’d got all the cream.
“You and Miss St. Claire look very well together, Your Grace.” Prue gave Max a playful grin.
“Indeed, you must dance again tonight, so we may have the pleasure of watching you,” Francesca added, with a sly wink at Rose.
“Yes, I suppose you’d better, Grantham.” Montford shook his head, but his lips were twitching. “Miss St. Claire has done the impossible. She’s made evenyoulook gallant.”
“Hush, you wicked man,” Prue scolded, tapping her husband with her fan.
“Indeed, you must dance again, but until then, perhaps you should take one of the other ladies out to the floor, Grantham.” Francesca gave Max a meaningful look.
Rose didn’t care for the thought of relinquishing Max to another lady, but he’d caught the notice of thetonby dancing his first dance of the evening with her. The guests were already whispering, and Lady Emily was glaring at her as if she could quite happily wring her neck.
“Yes, of course. Thank you for the dance, Miss St. Claire.” Max took her hand and skimmed his lips over her glove, then with another bow, he made his way across the ballroom to Lady Emily.
It wasn’t at all pleasant, having to watch him take Lady Emily to the floor, but Rose didn’t have time to think of it, because Viscount Dunwitty appeared then, and held his hand out to her with a bow. “Will you dance, Miss St. Claire?”
There wasn’t another gentleman in the ballroom—in Fairford, or Gloucestershire, or even all of England who could rival Max, but she was fond of Viscount Dunwitty, all the same. He was a kind, good-humored gentleman, and he’d been unfailingly attentive to her during the house party.
The smile she gave him as she took his hand was a genuine one. “I will indeed, my lord.”
