Page 59 of A Deal for the Duke’s Virgin

To his surprise, Lady Hawton answered. “Oh, yes, very much so! I confess, I don’t often attend parties these days. Of course, I ought to on account of Thalia and the Season and such, but truly, I am simply too tired. I daresay you find it shocking.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, smiling. “I find balls and parties to be a little unsettling, in truth. It’s hardly a natural scenario. Conversation has never come easily to me, to say nothing of conversation with strangers.”

“And yet here we are,” the Marquess remarked briskly. “Let’s not complain too much about what cannot be changed. Thalia, do you have your dance card?”

A not-so-subtle hint. The implication was clear. If Christian wished to show his interest in Thalia, he had better ask her to dance quickly.

Dancing would not help them achieve their goals. He needed to talk to her privately, but a carefully engineered dance, with her stepmother and brother watching their every move, would not give them a chance to talk.

So, he did not offer to dance. Instead, he glanced straight at her. He found her staring back at him. There was heat in her gaze.

No, perhaps that was his imagination. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. He imagined heat in her gaze because he wanted so badly for it to be true.

The realization sent a shiver down his spine.

I want her to desire me. Perhaps she already does. But then, what good would that do her? What good would it do any of us?

Once again, he would have to be content with questions that could not be answered.

“Perhaps I can escort you to the refreshments table, Lady Thalia?” he asked mildly. “I believe the punch is quite good.”

Before Thalia could speak, or before her brother could intervene on her behalf, a rather bulky man shouldered his way past Christian.

Christian blinked, a little shocked that someone would dare shove him. Then he got a good look at the man and fought not to roll his eyes.

It seemed likely that Mr. Pembroke would not be so bold anywhere else, but this was his mother’s house, and by extension his own, so he could be as bold as he liked.

He shot Christian a disdainful look before offering the slightest of nods. Then he turned back to Thalia.

“Lady Thalia,” he said with a deep bow, “you look fine this evening. Have you a partner for the upcoming dance? I believe the dancing will take place on that neat little patio.”

Thalia blinked, eyes as wide as a cornered rabbit’s. “I… I haven’t a partner,” she managed.

Mr. Pembroke smirked. Catching Jonathan’s eye, he whipped a pencil out of his pocket, seized Thalia’s wrist, and scribbled his name on her dance card.

Christian breathed out, hands curling into tight fists. Every instinct urged him to lunge forward and peel Mr. Pembroke’s clammy fingers from around Thalia’s wrist with as much force as was necessary.

Unfortunately, there were rules, and breaking a man’s fingers in his own house over a perfectly reasonable dance invitation would be construed as breaking several of those rules.

The Marquess cleared his throat and jerked his chin at his sister. “Well then, Thalia, off you go. The dance is beginning.”

On cue, music blared. A handful of musicians sat on a disconnected patio, only a few feet away from the larger one. They were playing some jaunty jig, something that promised to be very energetic.

Mr. Pembroke reached out his hand. Thalia was obliged to put hers in it, before she was led away.

That left the three of them standing awkwardly together. The Marquess glanced up at Christian and sighed, almost irritated. Then he strode off, towing his stepmother behind him.

Lady Hawton held back just for a moment.

“I’m afraid you missed your chance, dear,” she sighed before she was tugged away.

Christian stood there for a moment or two, watching the dance begin. Mr. Pembroke, slow and ponderous, always seemed to be two steps behind. Thalia moved nervously, almost jerkily, and glanced frequently around as if looking for something or someone.

A figure appeared at his elbow, and Christian glanced over to find Daphne standing beside him. She mutely pushed a glass of whiskey into his hand.

“I thought you might need this,” she remarked, casting a thoughtful look at him. “You look a little annoyed, I must say.”

“I feel annoyed.”