by Eva Devon
Perhaps, he could make up for being so insufferable. And he supposed he truly had been. If he were honest with himself. He still thought she should have agreed. Despite what everyone else who knew seemed to think.
But there was no escaping on his part that he had not proposed as he should have.
Now, he never would. And well, they could be friends again even if the very idea of holding her in his arms laced though him with hunger.
He turned only to find her staring, following his movements with dedication.
“Is something amiss?” he asked, stopping.
“You are quite strong,” she observed.
“It would be easy to spend my life at a desk, but that’s not for me. I’ve always been a physical sort.”
She nodded, still staring.
He stood before her and offered his hand. “Lady Eglantine, will you do me the honor of this waltz?”
She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, permit me to check my dance card.”
He bit back a grin as she fiddled with an imaginary card tied to her wrist.
“It seems I do have but one waltz free. I would be happy to give it to you.”
“Splendid, splendid,” he said grandly, biting back a laugh.
She’d always been good fun and he knew she always would be. Eglantine would always be laughing and easy. Not grand at all. Perhaps, she was right. Perhaps, Drake was right. His mother, too. She wouldn’t have been happy as a duchess where grandness was a veritable requirement.
Something deep within him continued to disagree.
He bowed, waiting.
Then, she slipped her hand into his and the entire room took on the strangest quality. As if they were surrounded by water.
She wore no gloves. Nor did he.
Her fingers slipped over his, silk against velvet and the delicate touch which should have seemed as nothing sparked. It slipped down his hand, up his arm and flamed to life within his being. It was all he could do not to seize her to him.
He snapped his gaze to hers to see if he alone was affected.
But she was staring at him with a shock that reflected his own surprise.
He shook the notion away.
He was attracted to Eglantine. That was not a surprise. Such a thing would not stumble them. But even so, he had never felt. . . like this. With Eglantine, he felt as if the entire world disappeared with her hand in his. But none of that mattered. She had turned him down.
So, he led her to the space he had cleared, and slipped his free hand about her waist.
Another spark. Devil take it, how he longed to caress her waist then to let his hand travel upward to the curve of her breast.
To his shock, the curve of her body met his palm as if they had been perfectly fitted. He towered over her. And he relished the feel of gazing down at her, of her tilting her head back to meet that gaze.
It looked as if she was awaiting a kiss, lips pink and slightly parted.
But that couldn’t be right.
For the first time he could recall, she did not look confident.
“Do not laugh,” she all but whispered, her violet eyes shadowed with doubt.
“Never,” he assured and then he swayed into her, beginning the count.
Immediately, she stepped on his foot.
He winced and grinned.
A red blush stung her cheeks. “I did tell you. All this face to face, embracing. Why must I?”
“Of course, I shan’t press if you wish to stop,” he said gently. “But it is a wonderful dance. It feels. . . well, it feels what flying must feel like if it’s done rightly.”
“I’ve always longed to fly,” she said wistfully. “But look what happened to Icarus.”
“We’ll just have to be very careful not to be burned then, shan’t we?”
She nodded, though as he readjusted his hold on her waist, savoring the feel of her, he wondered if such a thing was possible. Could he not be burned by Eglantine? Had he already been caught in her fire?
It didn’t matter.
For she would never be his and his heart suddenly sank.
But he was determined to do at least this for her and so this time, he pressed her even closer. Allowing their bodies to touch. Her breasts skimmed his chest ever so slightly and his thighs pressed into her legs.
Her eyes flared. But with such proximity, he could guide her movements more carefully. So, he lifted her to the very tips of her toes, and held her confidently.
When he began to turn about the room, it was she who began to laugh.
“It is so easy!” she exclaimed.
And it was. With Eglantine, everything was so easy.
He smiled down at her, pleased by her happiness.
He picked up the pace and began to turn her ever more quickly. They swirled and dipped to the feel of the dance and though no instruments played, he felt the music between them.
Finally, he swayed her to a halt. Her cheeks were flushed now with exertion and confidence as her skirts swung about their legs.
Her body pressed against his and it was all he could do not to commit her every curve to memory. To devour her body and teach it to love the pleasure of the flesh as she seemed to love everything else. He longed to do as he’d never done. To ruin an innocent. He couldn’t do that. The idea was impossible.
Eglantine’s violet eyes widened as she stared up at him. “You have a very strange look upon your face.”
“Do I?” he rasped, his passion taking him over in a way it never had before.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered.
He slid his hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer. “And what does it look like?”
Her breasts rose and fell in quick breaths and she did not pull back. “As if I’m a sweet, and you are rather hungry.”
“Oh, Eglantine,” he whispered. And without thinking, he pulled her against him until their bodies pressed together, until he could feel the line of her hips pressing towards him, the softness of her breasts against his chest, and the vee of her legs.
Reason abandoned him and he bent his head. This, this was what he had wanted in the woods. What he’d hoped to have. Now. . . now, he lowered his head, determined to kiss her.
She stared up at him in wonder and whether she realized it or not, she tilted her head, readying for him.
He couldn’t ignore that silent call and he drew his free hand to her nape, his fingers entwining in her curls. And then his mouth was on hers.
She let out a gasp but did not pull away. No, she wrapped her arms about his shoulders, leaning in to him.
Like a summer storm, the desire crashed over them and he took her mouth as a man who knows he may never know such sweetness again.
Breathless, she began to match his kiss. Slowly, awkwardly, but then with the passion of one who had been swept away.
He traced the line of her mouth with his tongue and, startled, she opened to him.
When he touched his tongue to hers, she moaned ever so softly.
His body ached for her and his hand at her back slid to her hips, fairly lifting her off the ground to cradle against his cock.
Kiss after kiss drove any thought for her innocence away. For she gave and took as much as he.
The sound of footsteps in the hall broke through his madness and simultaneously Eglantine ripped herself from his arms.
She stared at him, hair wild, eyes wide, mouth open as she struggled to catch her breath.
He knew he had to be looking at her the same, as if he had no idea what force had taken him captive.
They both listened carefully, waiting to see if someone was about to enter.
She laughed nervously as the footsteps faded then she narrowed her gaze. Her voice low and passionate, she teased, “I say, you weren’t trying to arrange for us to be caught, were you?”
He stared at her for a good, long moment, not certain if he should be offended. But then he laughed at her humor. “Eglantine, I should. But I won’t. I’d never want yo
u that way.”
“Glad to hear it.” She headed to the mirror over the fireplace, and quickly patted her hair into place. “Now, I must be off.”
“Surely, we should discuss what just happened,” he said softly.
She shook her head as she darted towards the door. “So much to do, you know. Luckily, I’ve a new novel to see me through the hair dressing. It takes over an hour, you know.”
She rolled her eyes with exaggeration as if such a thing was torture.
He swallowed. She was trying to pretend as if the world had not just utterly changed for the both of them. Or perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps, she had not felt the same as he.
So, he forced himself to ask, “What will you be reading?”
“Mary Wollstonecraft’s new book.”
“We’ll have to discuss it,” he said at last, dismayed that their passion was so quickly slipping away. But then, what else could it do? She wasn’t foolish enough to give herself to him, and he would never ask that of her.
Her brow furrowed and her hands fluttered nervously over her skirts. “Are you reading it?”
He nodded. “I bought it this morning. I’ve read all her work. And I’m reading the Duchess of Devonshire’s book, though, of course, she’s used a pseudonym. It’s not new but I’ve long wished to read it.” Damnation this was terrible, this pretending. He drew in a long breath and continued, “Supposedly, it is very good.”
“You did?” she asked, surprised. “She has?”
“I read three novels a week,” he said. “And there’s little a lady can’t do if she puts her mind to it. Even a duchess.”
“She’s written a novel?” she queried. “Which one?”
“The Sylph.”
Her nervousness evaporated under her excitement. “But that is a most popular novel!”
“That it is.” He did not know whether to laugh or lament, but he did love how easy it was to make Eglantine smile. One need only show interest in what she loved. “Now, I mustn’t keep you.”
And with that, unable to pretend as if they had not shared a soul-shaking exchange, he left her.
As soon as he strode into the hall and headed for his study, he smiled.
He’d surprised her and he was glad of it. If she thought he was a man with no imagination, she was going to be very surprised, indeed. He’d gone about it very wrong with Eglantine. He knew that now.
And, perhaps, it was too late to go back and correct it. But at the very least, he could know her and be her friend and urge her on to the heights that everyone else seemed to think she had no desire to ascend.
The passion. . . the passion would have to be foregone, no matter how torturous. For he could never ruin a friend.
As he headed for the foyer, needing fresh air to cool his blood, he had a feeling that if Eglantine Trewstowe wished it, there would be no height she could not surmount. And unlike everyone else, he had no intention of underestimating her.
Chapter 11
Much to Eglantine’s delight, she had not tripped on her long, silver-embroidered train, spilled her punch upon her cream-colored silk gown, or trodden on any polished dancing shoes. Yet.
After all, the night was not over.
Still, she was fairly optimistic if not completely flummoxed. She was not certain what she had expected from her brief time alone with George this afternoon, but what occurred had certainly not been it.
For one maddening, glorious moment, she had given herself over to complete bliss. It had been the most earth-shaking moment of her life. . . one she’d experienced without the mutual love she’d so longed for.
It had been complete folly. Kissing a duke she had denied marriage seemed the antithesis of good sense. Sense had nothing to do with the feeling that had overtaken her. She was only thankful they’d heard footsteps. For it was clear, she was completely capable of being swept away by George whether he loved her or not.
“Isn’t this marvelous?”
Eglantine nearly jumped at the sound of her dear friend Harriet’s voice.
She turned to the beautiful young lady who was as merry as she was lovely and nodded.
Harry beamed, gazing over the tightly packed members of the ton whose jewels and clothes glittered decadently. “Have you danced yet?”
Eglantine cleared her throat, surveying the numerous couples traveling over the dance floor. “Yes. With Lord Treton.”
“Oh, dear.” Harry gave her an understanding smile. “I do fear he will keel over when he dances.”
“I think it was a very near thing,” Eglantine agreed. “But the evening will surely turn about soon.”
She’d always known this wasn’t going to be simple or easy. She did have a bit of a reputation as a bluestocking. How could she not with her mother’s views known to all?
So all Harriet did was nod and reply, “Of course.”
“Have you danced every dance?” Eglantine asked without jealousy. Her friend was absolutely deserving of a joyful first Season. For Harry was determined to marry this year. Something she would doubtlessly achieve given her ability to make sparkling conversation with almost anyone.
“Very nearly,” Harry said. But then she leaned in and whispered, “But it was the last that was revelatory.”
Eglantine took in her friend anew, realizing the flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes were not from exertion but rather excitement. “Oh?”
Harriet grinned and took her hands. “Rob is in London!”
Eglantine blinked. “The Duke of Blackstone?”
“Yes.” Harriet waggled her brows. “And he is quite changed but divinely handsome. I wonder why I never truly noticed before.”
Eglantine laughed. “You’ve known him since he was in knee pants.”
A deliciously wicked look transformed Harriet’s face. “I wonder what his knees look like now.”
“Harriet!” Eglantine tried to sound shocked. But how could she when she’d been in a rapturous embrace this very afternoon? It was deuced difficult that she couldn’t share it with Harry. But it was her brother!
Harriet widened her eyes innocently. “We are but friends. Rob and I. But he is a most handsome friend.”
Eglantine searched the crowd of feather and pomade wearing aristocrats then spotted him. He was impossible to miss. Dark hair, tall, a demeanor which suggested he did not particularly wish to be there and he kept looking over at Harriet.
“He is rather handsome,” Eglantine agreed, realizing her friend was besotted.
“Rather?” Harriet tsked. “He is exceedingly handsome.”
“You like him,” Eglantine teased.
“Well, of course!” Harriet proclaimed, deliberately ignoring Eglantine’s meaning.
How tangled everything was becoming now that they had all grown up. “No—”
“Oh, look! It is George.” Harriet narrowed her eyes. “Whatever is he doing? He doesn’t usually put himself into the fray and he already danced with Rob’s sister. He hates these affairs.”
“He does?” Eglantine asked, surprised. She had thought, given his determination to be a perfect duke, that he would have thought these balls most important.
“I think he’d rather be reading,” Harry said. “Or at one of his wicked parties, of course. Here he is like a stag. But instead of being hunted by a single fellow, he’s surrounded by a room full.”
Eglantine’s lips twitched even as she attempted to still the rapid pounding of her heart at the sight of him. “I can’t bring myself to pity him.”
“Don’t,” agreed Harry, whispering sotto voce. “He’s very capable and it’s good for him.”
Eglantine could not take her eyes off of George as he cut his way through the company. “You think so?”
“He must marry,” Harry said.
Eglantine swallowed, feeling terrible that she had a secret. . . and that George would marry someone he likely had little feeling for. “So, he must.”
“All dukes do.”
Eglantine bit her lower lip. This
was the time to tell her friend. To confess. If only she could find a way—
“He’s coming this way!” Harriet grinned. For she quite liked her brother.
They’d all been thick as thieves as children. And Eglantine admired the way the Cornwalls loved each other with such boisterous glee.
George made his way through the crowd of waving mamas, head held high, like a ship stealing through a blockade of French Corsairs. Or so she imagined.
He stopped before them and bowed slightly.
Harriet gave a small, saucy curtsy. “How very proper, Brother.”
“Lady Eglantine is proper, even if you aren’t, scamp.” George’s voice rumbled, deep and at ease.
Proper? Was that what he thought? She doubted it after her comments about Whig parties. And the fact that they had exchanged the most scorching of kisses. Or that she went sans shoes in a forest.
“May I have this dance, Lady Eglantine?” he asked, extending his snow white gloved hand.
Harriet grinned at them, obviously happy that her brother was helping her friend.
For, it was true. If a duke danced with her, it would be helpful. It wasn’t that Eglantine wished to be a success. She never would be. Not like Harriet clearly would be. But nor did she wish to be stuck against the wall, waving her fan, determined to look fascinated by all the other ladies who had not been asked to dance.
That seemed a most unproductive way to spend one’s Season.
So, she took George’s strong, gloved hand and did her very best to walk with dignity onto the floor. It was incredibly difficult, for her mind was racing back to the dance they’d exchanged this afternoon. . . and the kiss.
But even as her blood fairly hummed at his nearness, her heart longed to skip, for George was an excellent dancer. And she wondered if she would feel like flying again, as she had done this afternoon.
As he whisked her onto the floor, she felt the sudden attention of a good deal of the room. The scent of oranges and sandalwood surrounded her and she faced his broad chest, staring at the snowy pressed linen of his cravat.
She sensed the eyes upon them, but she did not seem to care. Not in his arms.
When a duke danced, people watched. That was simply how it was.
