Page 38 of The Duchess’ Little Miracle

Seraphina looked across the small divide of mattress into his eyes, taking a slow, grounding breath. The logical part of her hated unanswered equations, but his promise offered an undeniable sense of security.

“All right,” she agreed softly. “I will hold you to that.”

In the dusk of her bedchamber, with the rain tapping against the glass and the fire crackling low in the grate, the space between them felt suddenly, overwhelmingly small.

For several long seconds, neither of them moved.

Then, as if suddenly realizing how long he had been staring, William blinked. A faint, subtle flush touched the top of his cheekbones, and he straightened his spine instantly. He deliberately cleared his throat as he rose to his feet.

“Right,” he said brusquely, his voice instantly shifting gears. “Moving on to practical matters. We need to begin appearing in public. We must attend the upcoming social season, specifically the major balls in town over the coming weeks.”

Seraphina blinked, thrown completely off balance by the sudden, jarring turn in the conversation. She shot up to her feet too. “The balls? Why on earth would we spend our evenings in crowded ballrooms when there are actual, pressing matters to resolve?”

“Because whoever is sending you those letters is operating under the assumption that you are isolated,” William explained. “They are targeting a woman they believe is vulnerable, writing alone without immediate protection. If they see that you are no longer isolated, if they see you flanked by my title, integrated into high society at my side, it changes their calculus entirely. It forces them either to make a reckless mistake and act prematurely, or to withdraw their threats altogether.”

Seraphina frowned, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach as she considered his words. She let her shoulders drop, staring into the corner of the room.

“That is true. I haven’t received a single letter in weeks,” she admitted quietly.

“You consider that a relief?”

“No,” she said, looking up at him. “Silence from someone who is threatening you can’t be peace. It usually means they are watching. It means they are waiting for an opening.”

“Precisely,” William said, his eyes narrowing. “Which is why we do not give them an opening. We go to the balls. We demonstrate an absolute, unshakable united front before the entire town. This is the end of my own bargain, Seraphina. Play along.”

“Very well,” she said at last, bringing her hands to her hips. “I agree with the strategy. It is sound. There is, however, one minor, tactical flaw in your plan.”

William raised an eyebrow. “What tactical flaw would that be?”

“I do not know how to dance.”

Seraphina braced herself, her breath catching slightly in her throat. Deep down, she had known this moment would inevitably come. Ever since she had agreed to step into his world, she had dreaded the day she would have to admit the reality of her upbringing to someone like him.

She held her breath, half-expecting a flash of annoyance, a weary sigh, or at least a sharp reprimand for failing to possess the most fundamental skill required of a Duchess.

William tilted his head, his eyes wide as his lips parted.

“What?” he asked mildly.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Icannot believe you do not know how to dance,” William said, staring at her in complete disbelief.

He stood in the center of the drawing room, looking at her as if trying to solve a riddle that defied all logic. He went on talking, pacing a few steps across the wide floorboards as he listed all the ways a woman of her standing should have learned years ago: private tutors, town assemblies, seasonal balls, and family gatherings. None of it made any sense to him. How could she attend a London Season and somehow escape the most basic expectations of polite society?

Seraphina stood a few paces away, barely hearing half of what he was saying.

A sudden, strange wave of heat was rising up her neck, making her skin feel uncomfortably warm. Her heart was beating entirely too fast, fluttering in a panicked, irregular rhythm that made it hard to draw a deep breath. Her palms felt clammy, and a light flutter in the pit of her stomach made her feel slightly lightheaded.

‘A fever,’ she thought, silently cataloging the symptoms as he continued his lecture. ‘I believe I have taken a feverish chill.’

The symptoms had begun the second she walked into the room. When William had summoned her down to the drawing room, she had expected another discussion over the threat letters. Instead, she had stepped through the doors to find that the furniture had been completely rearranged. The armchairs and side tables had been pushed back against the walls, leaving the wide expanse of floorboards cleared and waiting.

The moment she realized why he had cleared the space... the instant her mind registered that they were about to dance, that he was going to hold her and step into her personal space, that sudden, overwhelming heat had flooded her veins.

She tried to convince herself that the timing was a pure coincidence. It had nothing to do with the fact that she was about to be in breath-to-breath proximity with him. No, the physical reaction was purely physiological, a delayed response to the damp air outside.

Why else would the mere prospect of dancing with him cause her heart to pound like a trapped bird? Why should the thought of his hand on her waist send such a strange, alarming flutter through her stomach? It made no logical sense.