He poured himself another glass of brandy.
ChapterSixteen
The next time George saw Sybil was at a ball his mother had thrown. His mother, the Dowager Duchess of Danver, never wanted to let Society forget that she existed, and because of the clout and influence that accompanied her name, the events that she arranged were always well-attended.
She had requested that he host the ball at Danver Manor, given he had a dedicated ballroom and her townhouse did not, and in return, he had requested that she invite Sybil and her family. That was his only condition, but it had taken her three days to accept.
Three days in which he lamented being raised by a mother who so openly despised him.
To his relief, however, when the ball opened, Lord and Lady Averley, accompanied by Lady Sybil, were among the first to arrive. As host, he had his duty of greeting the guests that arrived, but as soon as his duty was done, he turned in search of Sybil. When he found her, he blinked in surprise. The family unit, all standing together, was attracting a considerable amount of attention.
No,Sybilwas attracting a considerable amount of attention. The way he had courted her had spread like wildfire through thetonand now everyone was keen to know what had inspired such interest on his part.
Which was exactly what he had intended. He’d known his attention would inspire everyone else’s, and he had vowed to help her find a husband. He had also, in the face of her asking if they should marry, not given her an answer because his answer would have to be no.
So why, then, did he view the growing crowd around Sybil with such distaste? Yes, he wanted to make her his in a permanent, irrevocable, public way—though not indecently; her mother had done enough of that—but that did not warrant the level of possessiveness he felt toward her.
As though she was already his. It made his blood begin to boil, and he was halfway across the room toward her before he even knew what he was doing.
“Lady Sybil,” he said as the crowd around her parted for him. She looked up at him, her eyes widening and her lips opened to let a whisper of a breath escape. He lost himself in her gaze; it swallowed him entirely in waves of green and brown like sunlit trees.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied, her head dipping. “I was just conversing with Sir Robert, and—”
“Yes,” George barely gave them a glance, “so I can see.”
Robert, the rascal, glanced at him with a knowing look. “Excuse me, Hansen. Lord Cavely has just arrived.”
Robert didn’t want to speak to Lord Cavely any more than Sybil did, but an excuse was an excuse, and George could only be grateful he had made it. “May I beg a dance, Lady Sybil?” he asked, knowing he had cut many other young men out of the conversation before they could ask her, and not caring. He wanted no other man dancing with her.
“You are very forward, Your Grace,” she mumbled, that telltale flush crawling up her cheeks again. Whatever else she was, however else she felt, he knew how attracted she was to him, and that inspired him to take her hand and raise it to his lips.
“I am keen to forward our friendship,” he said, looking down at her. Beside her, her mother looked on indulgently. Many mamas might have taken offense to the way he held onto Sybil’s hand or the way he entered her space as he waited for her answer, but Lady Averley was not one of those mamas. All she wanted for Sybil was to marry well, no matter how she achieved that goal.
“Very well,” Sybil said.
“The waltz?”
Her gaze shot to his. “Have you no shame?” she hissed.
He bent so no one else was close enough to hear what they said. “Are you afraid you might betray yourself in front of the ballroom?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Afraid you might betray me.”
At that, he laughed, and leaned back, making a note on her dance card. “Considering how we met,” he said pointedly for the sake of everyone around them, “it seems fitting this dance be a waltz.”
She couldn’t argue with that, and after a second’s hesitation, she seemed to know it. “The waltz, then,” she said. “But you may claim no other dance.”
“Not even if I should wish it?”
The confusion in her eyes bit into him. “Why should you want to?” she murmured, her words for his ears only. “After our last conversation.”
He could hardly tell her what was on his mind—that he wanted her more badly than he had ever remembered wanting anything—so he settled for saying, “I warned you that if we were at a ball together, I would not resist being able to dance with you.”
Her confusion didn’t melt, but she nodded, and he stepped back, allowing her a little more space. The waltz was not for a few dances yet, and although he wanted nothing more than to dance every single one with her, he knew how improper that would be.
Two dances were pointed attention. Three, paramount to an offer of marriage. More than that was positively indecent.
He was going to claim at least two, and restrain himself from any more. After all, he could not commit to marrying her when she didn’t know the truth about him.
