She should have let it go. The ballroom was not the place for this. Yet his touch made all her nerves feel too near the surface. She could not seem to speak to him lightly, no matter how much prudence recommended it.
He looked at her for one long second, his hand still firm at her waist, his gaze dropping just enough to make her stomach drop before it lifted to hers again.
“And after one dinner,” he murmured, his breath a ghost of heat against her temple, “you’ve decided to dismantle my authority, my household, and my son?”
The dance turned. Suddenly, Emmeline felt how close he had drawn her. The space between them had thinned without her noticing, and now she could feel the full heat of him, the hard line of his body near enough to make her breath catch. His hand at her waist seemed heavier than before, more possessive. She looked up and saw that he had noticed it too, saw his eyes darken.
The space between them evaporated. For one heartbeat, their bodies moved as one, her chest grazing the wool of his coat. Her heart thudded against her ribs like a trapped bird.
By the time the music ended, she felt dragged back from somewhere she had no business wanting to go.
He stepped back by a fraction, not enough to seem abrupt, and escorted her from the floor with all the same grave propriety with which he had led her onto it.
By the time the Duke returned her to her father, people were already moving toward them.
“My dear Lady Emmeline, what wonderful news.”
“How very sudden.”
“That ring is exquisite.”
“Thank you.” Emmeline smiled, offered her hand when propriety demanded it, and felt the weight of every gaze on her.
Lord Ashcombe bowed to the Duke. “Ironford. My congratulations.”
The Duke inclined his head once. “My thanks.”
Lady Ashcombe smiled up at him with a softness that vanished when she looked back at Emmeline. “You must be very happy, Lady Emmeline.”
“I am very grateful,” Emmeline said.
The woman blinked, as though that answer had not been the one she wanted.
“Well,” Lady Merrow said, glancing again at the Duke, “His Grace has never lacked for admiration.”
Emmeline understood it then with sudden clarity. Women’s voices changed around him, and their glances kept slipping toward him and back again, while bitterness sat only half-hidden beneath their smiles. Perhaps they had not wanted the Duke in any tender, foolish sense, but they had wanted what stood beside her now—the title, the fortune, the broad-shouldered force of him.
A man appeared through the press at the most opportune moment, all easy charm and wickedly bright eyes.
“Lady Emmeline,” the Duke said, “This is Lord Calham, my oldest friend.”
Lord Calham bowed over her hand with theatrical elegance. “Your Grace has spoken of little else for days.”
The Duke’s head turned so quickly that Emmeline nearly laughed. “That is a lie, Frederick.”
Lord Calham lifted both hands in mock surrender. “A shame. It would have been so flattering.”
For the first time all evening, the knot in her chest loosened enough for amusement. “Then I must content myself with the ring.”
Lord Calham grinned. “A sensible lady.”
He was easy to speak to. Within moments he had made her father laugh, and even the Duke seemed less severe, though Emmeline noticed that his gaze kept returning to her whenever someone else spoke to her too long.
The thought was warm and absurd in equal measure.
At last Margaret managed to reach her.
“Come,” she muttered. “If one more woman with a false smile tells me how delighted she is for you, I shall overturn a floral arrangement.”
