Page 37 of How to Tempt a Duke

“You remember me, don’t you?” She blinked up at him with feigned sweetness. “I came to Somersville Manor often.”

Ah, yes, now he remembered. The Carston chit. The very one who used to dump dirt in Lottie’s hair and rudely point out the quality of her worn dresses when they were all children. Charles worked hard to keep cultured impassivity on his face, when he wanted so badly to give in to a scowl of dislike.

“Lady Sarah.” He nodded at the woman and hoped her costume was indicative of a bettered nature—for her own sake. “I trust you are well?”

She giggled behind her fan. “You do remember. And I’m quite well, I thank you.” She leaned closer. “The other ladies are envious of our acquaintance. Many are clamoring for an introduction.”

True enough, several faces were turned in their direction, all framed in a sea of curls and coiffures.

Dear God.

Attending Lady Covington’s masquerade ball had been a dire mistake. In doing so he had publicly declared himself an eligible bachelor, with a new dukedom, and plopped himself squarely in the middle of the marriage mart. Invitations would be overwhelming Somersville House the following day, and no doubt all the mothers would be seeking to thrust their daughters into his path.

“This will be a very exhilarating set.” Lady Sarah looked wistfully toward the dance floor and blinked up at him once more.

Charles gritted his teeth and made a silent apology to Lottie for what manners dictated he must do next. “Would you care to dance, Lady Sarah?”

She put her hand to her chest, as if the request had taken her by surprise. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.”

She fluttered her lashes at him once more, with such vivacity he wondered if one of the feathers had come loose and was stuck in her eye.

Lady Sarah slipped her arm through his, tugging herself a bit closer than was necessary. While she paraded him through the ballroom like a prize won, Charles caught sight of Lady Eleanor, making her way to the dance floor on the arm of the notoriously eligible Marquess of Kentworth.

Charles had to focus once more on not scowling as he settled himself in front of Lady Sarah. He’d been wrong when he had declared himself merely a pirate. For now, being forced to dance with an angel while watching an Ice Queen with another man made him feel very much like the devil himself.

Eleanor’s newfound appeal to the ton had more to do with the new Duke of Somersville offering to dance with her than the results of her social edification. However, her suitors made one realization glaringly obvious: not all men were like the Duke of Somersville.

Where he was warm and encouraging, sometimes even teasing, and with the most pleasant hint of flirtation, other men were—well, they were dull.

The Marquess of Kentworth was an exceptional dancer, and yet he’d prattled on so about his physical prowess that her eyes had nearly rolled from her head. The tall and awkward Viscount Rawley had come next, with a nervous bow, and during the course of their dance had dropped a scrap of paper with the dance steps written on it in blotted ink.

Following supper, which she’d been unfortunate enough to be forced to attend with Viscount Rawley and his many dietary allergies, had come the very anticlimactic affair of unmasking.

It wasn’t until she was subjected to Earl of Devonington, though, that she had finally had quite enough. She might have fallen asleep dancing the Scottish reel, with his boring chatter over his hunting dogs, had it not been for the many numerous times he trod upon her toes with his surprisingly dainty feet.

The final notes of the dance finally whispered through the air—far sweeter than any Eleanor had heard before. The Earl of Devonington gave a final deft leap and came down hard on her foot. The very one he’d crushed so often earlier in the dance.

He led her back to her mother with a comment on hunting that teetered precariously on the inappropriate and a promise to call upon her the following day. It was then Eleanor decided she needed a moment to herself, lest she go mad.

It had been wonderful, initially, to have the attention of so many gentlemen when she had previously been so woefully ignored. But easy conversation had not come with the others as it had with the Duke of Somersville. The carefree comfort she possessed when she spoke with him had not come as readily either.

The set she’d danced with him had set the night twinkling with promise and excitement. Everything thereafter had fallen rather flat.

Only when she was alone could she finally acknowledge the bold request she’d made of him: to marry her in the event that another man could not be found. She’d done it out of necessity, of course, to ensure her own financial security. At any rate, it did not seem likely he would need to follow through.

And yet she knew the offer had been unwise. Not only would her mother never allow such a union, Eleanor did not know what to make of the emotions swimming in her stomach when he was near, the sensation as exhilarating as it was frightening.

It was far too easy to recall the brush of his hand over her naked back, the way their eyes had locked while the world spun around them, as though their souls were joined. It was fanciful and ridiculous and altogether reckless.

She strode from the withdrawing room into the empty hall while thinking of the waltz. While thinking of him. They’d been so close—near enough for her to note the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled down at her, the way their bodies touched and how incredibly strong his broad shoulder had been under her hand. Even now the exotic spice of him clung to her skin and gown, the way the residual warmth of a good dream might linger into wakefulness—as if she could still savor him.

“What is it that puts such happiness on your face, Lady Eleanor?” a smooth, masculine voice asked.

Eleanor turned to her right and found the Duke of Somersville approaching her. “Your Grace...” Her heart fluttered like a freed moth in her chest.

The Duke tilted his head regretfully. “I’d ask you for a second set if you weren’t so popular.”

“You mean if it wouldn’t be so scandalous?” she chided.