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Gulping, I nod. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“Call me Chester, please,” he croons, leaning close to me. He smells like mothballs and stale red wine.
I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the movement of my feet.
“You move so gracefully,” he starts again, clearly trying to get more of a response out of me. “I would have guessed you’re the ballerina in the family.”
That earns a barking laugh from me. My dancing is stilted, to say the least. I can play music, of course. I can let go and feel the rhythm when I’m sitting in front of a piano.
But dancing? Using my body to convey emotion?
I’m hopeless.
“Seeing you here almost makes me feel like I’ve chosen the wrong Lady Belcourt,” Count Gregory says, his voice nothing more than a whisper. His words slither over my skin, making my eyes snap open.
My head spins. I trip over my feet, stepping the wrong way as the Count tries to lead me over the dance floor. I can’t hear the music anymore because my heartbeat is rushing so hard.
I need to get away. Run, run, run.
Every instinct is screaming at me. Every muscle wound tight. Every part of my brain blaring danger!
There’s fight and flight—but I just freeze. My body keeps moving mechanically as the waltz continues, led by the Count as we circle around the dance floor. I can’t pull away. I can’t push him off me. It’s like everything inside me just stops working while my mind runs into overdrive.
“May I cut in?” A warm voice slices through the panic in my mind.
The Duke.
Count Gregory’s face falls, pure hatred shining in his eyes. I notice the waltz has ended and a space has opened up around me, the Duke, and Count Gregory. People are watching.
How could they not?
The Duke of Blythe doesn’t attend balls. When he does, he sits in a corner and disappears after an hour.
He doesn’t dance.
But—
“Of course,” Count Gregory says, clenching his jaw so tight I think I hear a crack. When he takes a step away from me, I let out a breath.
The Duke turns to face me, ignoring the murderous look in Count Gregory’s eyes. He looks at me, his eyes like shards of green glass. Holding out a hand, he waits for me to step to him.
Even that tiny moment—waiting for me to come to him, giving me control over how he touches my body, asking for my permission—I notice. It means something to me. It makes the tightness in my body ease ever so slightly.
I lift my arm up to his shoulder as a quiet murmur goes through the guests, but I can’t look away from his face. “You’re dancing,” I say, my mouth still stiff and full of cotton balls.
“Not quite yet,” the Duke grins, those full lips tugging up at the edge.
Slowly, the discomfort ebbs away from my body. My veins shake off some of the icicles that had started growing in them, and a soft warmth grows in the pit of my stomach.
The music starts. Another waltz.
This time, I don’t feel wooden and mechanical. I stare at the Duke’s face, letting out a long breath as the safety of his arms starts to loosen me up.
“Thank you,” I finally manage to say, shaking my head. “That was uncomfortable. You saved me.”
The Duke grins. “Are you sure I’m any better?”
There’s danger in his eyes. Not the way Count Gregory’s eyes spoke danger. The Duke’s gaze doesn’t make a shot of cold jet down my spine. The opposite happens. Fire roars in the pit of my stomach, sending spears of heat down my thighs.
