Page 47 of Gabriela and His Grace

“You do,” she managed to murmur, fluttering her eyes open and glancing up at his face. “This trip has been illuminating in more ways than one.”

Whitfield inclined his head. “For me as well.”

Gabby nibbled on the inside of her cheek for a moment. The duke knew why she had fled the party, so it seemed prudent to confront what her father had said and put the shame behind her. “Thank you for what you said.”

“What I said?”

“To my father.” She swallowed. “I’m sure it’s been quite enlightening to see how the lauded Elías Luna really feels about his youngest daughter.”

“I meant every word.” The duke rocked back on his feet. “And it has been enlightening, actually.”

Gabby wanted to ask how, but her mouth was abruptly desert dry.

To her horror, Whitfield turned on his heel and faced her directly, his blue eyes snaring hers even in the poor lighting. “It has given me insight into the person you are. Why it often feels as if you are constantly on the offensive. As if you’re expecting verbal attacks instead of compliments. It’s because you’ve been trained to expect such things.”

The music and the sounds of the crowd faded away, and all Gabby could hear was the duke’s voice. His calm, soothing tenor curled about her.

“It’s also why you’re a defender. Why you rush to protect others. Your sisters, definitely, but also your friends. Acquaintances. I compared you to a Gorgon once. Do you remember?”

She nodded, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Two years prior Gabby had attended a horse race with Isabel, where they’d encountered Whitfield. When he called her a Gorgon, she hadn’t been sure if it was a compliment or not, and Gabby suspected that was the point. Everything about the duke left her off balance.

“I’m sure you thought I said it in jest, but I meant it earnestly.” Whitfield took a step closer, his gaze unwavering on hers. “You are a fearsome champion of others, but you take up no weapons to defend yourself.”

“I do.” The words were broken, watery, but Gabby forced herself to say them. “It’s just so hard with…”

“With him.” The duke’s tone was gentle. “Why is that?”

Shaking her head, she dropped her chin to her chest. Gabby could not believe she was on the verge of tears before the Duke of Whitfield yet again. She was horribly embarrassed…but she also longed to wrap her arms around his waist and nestle into his broad chest. Nothing sounded more comforting, and Gabby held herself stiff as a board so she would not give in to the desire.

“Dance with me?”

Gabby frowned. “You really want to dance?”

“I do.” Whitfield smirked, and that familiar expression made her smile. “Plus, as I said, you owe me one.”

The music changed then, and so did the dancing. Quirking her lips, she said, “Do you know how to dance el jarabe tapatío?”

Furrows creased his brow as Whitfield stared at the couples positioning themselves as the first trumpet notes filled the air. “I do not. I swear I just heard a waltz.”

A giggle burst from her mouth, and Gabby pressed a hand to her lips. But Whitfield’s disgruntled expression made her laugh harder.

“They did play a waltz earlier, but not anymore,” she managed.

The duke’s frown deepened, although there was an amused light in his eyes as he watched her laugh at his expense. When Gabby finally calmed herself, Whitfield studied the dancers, who tapped and twirled around each other.

“Have you danced…?”

“El jarabe tapatío. No, I haven’t,” she said, turning to watch the dancers with him.

“Why not?”

Gabby lifted a shoulder. “The dance was only becoming popular when we fled to London. I was too young to dance it before that.”

Whitfield nodded and, after a heartbeat, glanced down at her. “I’m willing to try it, if you are.”

“You are?” Gabby blinked at him, suddenly lightheaded. “Truly?”

“Truly. Although”—he removed his hat and rubbed the back of his neck—“I will probably look like a fool.”