Page 33 of How to Tempt a Duke

She could not have been more wrong.

Everything she’d recently learned cautioned her against giving in to the desire to frost over, while every innate defense within her demanded she curl up inside herself. What was left was a very miserable and socially confused Eleanor. Her mother’s expectant stare did not help, and nor did the pressing watchfulness of the masked attendees.

Why, why, why had she insisted on trying to throw the ton’s words back at them? And why had her mother insisted on her having the costume made?

Now Eleanor was merely a fool draped in a costly gown and the burden of intense disappointment.

No one had approached her...no one had asked her to dance. No one had even bothered to acknowledge her or beg an introduction. The weight of failure crushed in on her. She tried to stave off such thoughts, and instead repeated the rules Lottie had given her.

Smile. Be sincere. Make eye contact. Believe in yourself.

Those last words made her want to give a choke of laughter. For how could she believe in herself when she didn’t even feel comfortable behind a physical mask?

Even as she tried to relax, every muscle in her body locked up, followed by the stiffening of her limbs and the straightening of her back to an impossible level of rigidity. The shield was up, locked so tightly in place that it could not be brought down by all the kittens in London.

“Lady Eleanor.”

The smooth, masculine voice was entirely too familiar. Her stomach twisted in anger and her heart gave a walloping thump against her ribs. She turned and met the brilliant ocean-blue eyes of the Duke of Somersville.

A fascinating thing happened then—for, despite the hostility of her ire, and in spite of the lies of omission and blatant betrayal offered by the Duke, Eleanor immediately felt herself soften.

“Your Grace.” She offered a slight curtsey.

“You did dress as an Ice Queen after all.”

His mouth quirked up. The arrogance in his expression scraped over her ragged nerves.

“Evidently,” she replied.

“Ah...an unforgiving Ice Queen,” he amended.

Eleanor glanced over the black fitted breeches, ruffled shirt and old-fashioned black jacket. The growth of hair on his jaw was unshaven, giving him a dangerous air. In fact, all of him appeared rather dangerous and far too alluring.

“And what are you? A rogue? Lord Charles?”

The Duke of Somersville swept into an elaborate bow and straightened. “I am a humble pirate.”

“Shouldn’t you possess at least a modicum of humility in order to refer to yourself as humble?”

He smirked. “Touché! You make me regret leaving my sword at home. I hadn’t realized I’d be up against so sharp a wit.”

Eleanor found her lips curling into a smile. She was flirting, she realized, and comfortably. What was more, she was enjoying herself immensely, even though she was furious with him. How could he make her do that when she was so irate still?

His expression turned serious—a rather becoming look with his whisker-darkened jaw. “Dance with me, my unforgiving Ice Queen.”

She studied him for a long moment, the answer hovering on her tongue. “If I refuse...?”

“I daresay your mother might be glad of it. But you won’t refuse me. To do so would be considered rude, and the Ice Queen, while unforgiving, is anything but rude.” He held out his arm to her.

“Am I so predictable?” She slid her arm through his.

“No, actually.” He grinned at her, his teeth all the more startling white against his whiskered jaw. “Not at all.”

The quiet amusement in his tone created a slow, pleasant warmth in her stomach as he led her through the room toward the dance floor.

“It was inexcusable for me to lie to you.” His voice was little more than a low hum beneath the chatter of surrounding conversations.

The quiet joy in her ebbed. “You made me a fool.”