“But you hesitated.” He grinned.
Charlotte’s pulse fluttered wildly as his gaze lowered once more to her lips. “Your Grace…”
“Victor,” he corrected quietly.
Her heart gave an entirely unnecessary leap. They stood far too close now. Charlotte could feel the heat of him even throughthe layers of their clothing, and when his hand brushed lightly against her wrist, she nearly forgot her own name.
This is madness. Absolute madness.
“You are impossible to argue with when you stand so near,” she whispered before she could stop herself.
A slow smile curved his mouth. “That sounds dangerously like encouragement.”
“It was not,” she said.
“Pity,” he said with a low husky whisper.
His fingers curled gently around her hand, and Charlotte looked up at him just as his face dipped lower. The world seemed to narrow to his eyes, his mouth, the warmth of his touch. She thought he might kiss her. Worse still, she thought she might let him.
At the last possible second, Charlotte stepped back. “Your grandmother should attend the ball,” she said breathlessly. “That was the matter at hand.”
Victor stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose and released her hand. “You are relentless.”
“I prefer determined,” she replied.
He dragged a hand through his dark hair. “Fine.”
Charlotte blinked. “Fine?”
“My grandmother may attend the ball.”
Her face lit instantly. “Truly?”
Victor looked positively tortured by her delight. “You weaponize that smile.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” he muttered. “And I resent it greatly.”
Charlotte laughed softly, unable to help herself.
Victor stared at her for another dangerous second before abruptly stepping away.
“Enjoy your victory, Miss Brown.” With that, he turned and strode back down the hedge-lined path without another word.
Charlotte remained rooted beneath the roses long after he disappeared. Her pulse still raced wildly, and the memory of his nearness lingered like heat against her skin. This arrangement was becoming perilous.
Because for one terrifying moment, I truly believed the duke intended to kiss me again. So why didn't he?
CHAPTER 14
Madame Delacroix’s dress shop was utter chaos.
Silks draped over velvet chairs, ribbons spilled from polished tables, and gowns trimmed with lace. Elegant ladies filled the showroom while seamstresses hurried back and forth carrying pins between their lips and muttering frantically about hems, sleeves, and impossible waistlines.
Charlotte stood in the middle of it all, wondering if battlefields sounded very much the same.
“I saw the blue one first,” Joan declared.
