As Kitty’s older sister and chaperone, the duty fell to Mara to initiate the introductions. But when she rose—unsteadily—from her chair, she found that her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth and the best she could manage was an unintelligible, “Uggrrr.” Then Kitty kicked her quite hard, and the flash of pain pried her tongue loose enough for her to sputter, “Your—Your Grace, might I introduce my sister, Lady Katherine H-Holden.”
The duke’s impenetrable gaze flicked to Kitty, then promptly returned to Mara.
“What is your name?” he asked in a deep, rich voice that could have made the devil blush.
“M-Mara. Marabelle. Lady Marabelle Holden.”
Kitty stepped in front of her and dropped into an elaborate curtsy that gave the duke a clear view of her ample bosom. “What an unexpected pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” she purred whilst fluttering her lashes.
“Indeed.” He shifted his weight. “Lady Marabelle, have you room on your dance card?”
Mara froze. “My—mydance card?”
The Duke of Southwick gave a curt, impatient nod. It was obvious that he was not a man accustomed to having to repeat himself and the act of doing so was an irritant. It was also obvious that he must have recently suffered a blow to the head. Why on earth else would he be ignoring Kitty and speaking directly to Mara? No one ever spoke directly to Mara. They talked past her. Over her. Around her. Through her as if she weren’t even in the room.
Buttoher?
Never.
If Kitty’s bewildered expression was any indication, she was equally puzzled.
“I... I have room.” Mara bit the inside of her cheek. “Lots of room.”
“But I’ve only two dances left,” said Kitty with a coquettish toss of her head. “If you’d like to claim one, Your Grace, I’d dare to suggest that you act quickly lest I be forced to disappoint you.”
Relief washed over Mara. That was how it was meant to happen. Strikingly imposing gentlemen danced with her sister, and she was left alone to read the books that she’d snuck in under her voluminous skirts. But then why... why was the Duke of Southwick reaching his hand out towardher?
His jacket sleeve pulled back, exposing an inch of bronzed skin between his black glove and his cuff. “Can I have it? Your card. I should like to sign my name.”
Mara jerked her gaze away from his wrist and a slid a frantic glance at Kitty who stood frozen in place, her eyes—a shade lighter than her sister’s with flecks of green—bulging in an unflattering manner.
“Umm... I...” She patted her sides, then turned to look at her chair. “I’m not sure where it is. Maybe... maybe you should sign your name to my sister’s instead?” she suggested hopefully.
“Or we can skip such formalities and you can accompany me onto the floor before the next contra-dance begins.”
“Right—right now?” she squeaked.
He raised a brow. “Have you somewhere pressing to be?”
“No. No, I, umm, it’s just—”
“Go on,” said Kitty with an airy laugh and a not-very-gentle shove that nearly sent her stumbling. “His Grace is asking you to dance, Mara. You wouldn’t want to insult him by declining, would you?”
Mara wet her dry lips. With enormous trepidation and a knot in her stomach the size of the Atlantic, she slowly placed her fingertips on the edge of the duke’s outstretched arm. An immediate tingle, the kind she received whenever she dashed across a rug in her stockinged feet, shot through her. On a gasp, she lifted her chin to find the duke staring down at her, a notched line in the middle of his temple.
“Lady Marabelle?” he asked, his tone noticeably rougher than it had been a moment ago. “Are you all right?”
“I’m... I’m fine,” she said faintly, which of course she wasn’t, but what other answer was there to give? Kitty was right. She couldn’t snub someone as powerful and influential as the Duke of Southwick by refusing his offer to dance. No matter that he must have mistaken her for someone else. Someone of consequence. Someone of interest. Someone of beauty.
He began to walk and she followed, her natural gate hindered by the sheer size of her gown. She tripped twice before he pivoted to face her, a hint of ire in his gaze. All around them couples squared off into position to prepare for the ever-so popular contra-dance, and when the band started to play the introduction, signaling the dance was about to begin, Mara and the duke did the same.
“If this is an act,” he said, his mouth hovering beside her ear as his hand settled on her waist, “I commend you on your originality.”
“An act?” she said, confused both by his statement and whereherhand was supposed to go. On his side, she knew that much from her lessons, but where?
Too low, and she would be encroaching on his hip. Too high, and her thumb would be intimately close to his chest. She’d never seemed to have this quandary with Lord Hamsworth, but to compare the two men would be to stand a pudgy walrus and an elegant panther side by side. One was round and fancied fish. The other hard and dangerously fierce.
“A display meant to gain attention. Surely you cannot bethisclumsy.” He gave her a wry look before solving her dilemma by grabbing hold of her wrist and placing it in the middle of his ribcage. For an instant longer than it should have, the pad of his thumb rested over her racing pulse and her heart gave a rapidthumpas another tingle ricocheted through her.
