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Harriet's breath caught.

"I was greatly sorry to hear of his passing."

"I — I thank you." She had not looked for such words, and to her dismay felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. Perhaps it was only the loneliness of the evening, or the sharp awareness of Edward's absence in a room they had once walked into together. But for a moment her composure trembled. "You are very kind, Lord Ashcroft."

He smiled at her and said no more, and she was grateful he did not press it.

There was a brief pause.

"I do not know whether you mean to dance this evening, Lady Colbourne." The Duke cleared his throat, and Harriet marked a hint of color in his face, his two friends saying nothing at all, Lord Woodley clasping his hands behind his back and smiling for the whole room to see. "But if you were to stand up tonight, I should be very glad to be the man you stood up with."

She blinked. "You wish to dance with me, Your Grace?"

"If I might."

It was the last thing she had looked for. She had not so much as thought of dancing, had not imagined herself stepping out with any gentleman at all. And yet, as his question hung there and he waited on her answer, she felt that warmth rise again into her face, and, to her own surprise, a small flicker of anticipation beneath it. "How very kind, Your Grace. Yes. I should be glad to."

To her astonishment, she found her card was suddenly wanted not by the Duke alone but by his two friends besides. "Might I beg a dance, Lady Colbourne?" Lord Ashcroft asked it first, and Lord Woodley directly after him, and upon her murmured assent each wrote his name to a dance. For a breath she hesitated. A widow so lately out of mourning, ought she to be dancing at all? But a quiet word from Sara and the warmth of her smile put the dark thought to flight.

"Ah — and here is the very dance I have claimed." The Duke, with a small smile that lit his face in a way she had not seen from him before, offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She had not realized the set was so near upon them. Surprised by her own quick gladness, she laid her hand upon his sleeve. "Yes, of course, Your Grace."

He led her onto the floor, and as they took their places he looked down at her a moment, holding her eyes. The music rose. He bowed, she curtsied, and then the figure carried them apart and drew them back, and Harriet found — to her wonder — that her feet remembered what her heart had half forgotten.

There was a pleasure in it she had not thought to feel again: the turn and return, the brief meeting of hands, the small formal grammar of a dance that asked nothing of her but to be present in her own body for the length of it. The Duke danced well — not showily, but with a plain, unhurried competence, as though he had somewhere better to put his energy and had decided, for these few minutes, to spend it here on her.

When the figure brought them together, and his hand closed briefly over hers, it lingered — a fraction longer than the dance required, no more, but she felt the fraction. She looked up, and found him already looking down, and a silent understanding passed between them that had no place in the steps.

"You dance beautifully, Lady Colbourne," he said, low, as the pattern parted them again.

"I am out of practice," she answered, when it brought them back.

"It does not show."

She let herself smile, and did not turn her face away from him this time.

The set wound to its close. The Duke stepped back and bowed, and she curtsied, and the last notes let them go, and Harriet stood a moment on the floor with her heart beating high, and could not tell whether it was the exertion or the man.

"You are, perhaps, not greatly acquainted with the London ton," he said, as he led her from the floor.

The heat of embarrassment touched her cheeks. "My father arranged my marriage to Lord Colbourne. I made my come-out here, as was expected of me, but was almost at once engaged." She swallowed, thick, and would not let the feeling rise. "The wedding was delayed by my father's death."

Sympathy showed in the Duke's face. "I am sorry for it."

"Once mourning was past, we married." A swell of gratitude warmed her at the memory of Edward's steadiness. "He was content to wait for me, to honor the arrangement my father had made."

"A dutiful and respectful man, then?"

"Very." Harriet's smile came soft. "We were dear friends, and I miss him dreadfully. He died most unexpectedly, you understand, and so my time of late has been spent largely alone." She flushed as his brows rose, hoping he would not think she fished for pity. "It is only what is to be expected, in mourning."

"You have had a great deal of mourning to bear, Lady Colbourne." His voice had gone gentle. "I am sorry for that."

She pressed her lips together and chose to say no more, thinking she had said a good deal already, and that a duke could hardly wish to hear the whole catalog of a stranger's sorrows.

"Might I ask you to take a turn about the room with me?"

The question surprised her, as did the ease of his smile as he made it.