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For goodness’ sake, he was persistent. Did they really have to converse? Wasn’t being forced to dance with a short woman whom he didn’t even know punishment enough for him?

Bea forced her lips into a smile and looked up. “I said nothing important, Your Grace.”

Hooded gray eyes were gazing down at her without the appearance of mockery. “My sister is not always kind, but it seems she has taken a genuine interest in you. Yet you looked pained as we began dancing. I hope that you weren’t insulted by her eagerness to see you show yourself to advantage on the floor. Obviously, she had no idea how graceful you are.”

Graceful? Bea could have snorted, and Regina definitely would have done so. Yet the duke was an astonishingly good dancer. Every other man she’d danced with had made her feel like a round pumpkin paired with a corn plant, but the duke seemed to instinctively move with her. This was … fun.

“I’m honored by Lady Regina’s interest,” Bea said hastily, realizing she hadn’t answered his comment. She failed to make the sentence sound even slightly convincing, which was frustrating. Everyone else seemed to be able to fake their emotions.

Her life with Lady Alcon would be a great deal easier if she had better control over her expressions.

Query: Would relations with Regina be better if she were able to offer lavish, if false, compliments?

Probability: Perhaps 50%?

Offering a compliment seemed quite likely to drive Regina to further heights of unkindness.

The duke’s brows drew together slightly, and he gave her a searching look. She immediately dropped her gaze to his shoulder, willing him to keep silent. Couldn’t she just enjoy this dance?

She might never dance with this particular duke again, and she was determined to savor it. The music sped up; now it sounded like tumbling water. Their arms held wide, His Grace began turning her again and again. Her dress was floating, and Bea felt light on her feet.

She couldn’t stop herself from smiling; it felt as if the music was flowing through her to the tips of her fingers, as if she were a fluffy seedpod spinning on an eddy of wind.

If she found a husband someday, she would teach him how to waltz properly with a short woman like herself. Most men held her awkwardly, hunching their shoulders, or dragging her arm half out of its socket. But the duke made it easy.

“I gather this is your first Season, Miss Valentine?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” she answered.

She was trying to ignore him and concentrate on the music. It wasn’t easy, though. The duke smelled so good, a blend of sandalwood, leather, and fresh, clean laundry.

She would insist that her husband—grocer or no—change his clothing every day, she thought dreamily.

The music sped up again, and His Grace swept her in one circle, then another, and another. It was so joyful that laughter burst out of her before she could stop it.

There was something sober and dark-edged about the duke’s face. But his mouth eased in response to her laughter. “You like to turn?”

“Yes!”

Nodding, he whirled her again and again, so quickly that everyone around them turned into a blur. Bea had no idea whether people were laughing at her, but for the first time since she came to London, she didn’t care.

Elation forced away the humiliation and disappointment she’d been soaking in.

Alas, the tempo finally slowed, and so did they. “You’re a marvelous dancer,” he said.

“Pish,” Bea said, when she had caught her breath. “I’m a rotten dancer, Your Grace. I am merely lucky enough to be partnered with you.”

She was morbidly aware of her ragged breathing. He was likely thinking that it was due to her extra girth. It wasn’t, it really wasn’t: Bea could ride for hours. But dancing with a duke? Spinning in circles and feeling like Cinderella, stealing her hour of happiness at the ball?

It took her breath away, just as it would any silly girl who dreamed of becoming a duchess. That was such an appalling thought that she dropped his hand as if it were a cold slug. Not only was she uninterested in being a duchess, but she was acutely aware that this particular duke would never seek her out, shoe in hand.

Query: The likelihood that the duke will ask her to dance again?

Probability: Zero.

His Grace hadn’t even asked her this time; Regina had forced the issue.

“In fact, you are one of the best dancers I’ve ever partnered,” His Grace said, voice low and thoughtful.