Page 10
The moment his back was to them, Elinor seized her hands and pulled her closer. “You are not going to believe who is here!” Excitement rippled through her whisper.
“Who?” Rosalind went to look, but Elinor stopped her.
“Do not turn around,” she hissed. “He is coming this way.”
“Who? Who is coming this way?”
“Oh my, but he appears even more striking in a ballroom than he does exiting the House of Lords.”
“Elinor.” Rosalind gave her friend’s hands an impatient shake. “About whom are you speaking?”
“None other than the elusive Duke of Kelbrook,” Elinor whispered.
Rosalind forced herself to breathe. “He is here? Are you sure?”
Elinor nodded. “I saw him once from across the road when Mother and I met my brother, Harry, at Whitehall.”
Rosalind’s heart raced. Why was the duke here? He never attended balls.
“Good evening, Miss Ainsworth.”
Elinor’s eyes widened. She released Rosalind’s hands and took a small step back. Willing herself to remain calm, Rosalind slowly turned to face the Duke of Kelbrook.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
Although the ball was a formal affair, he had opted to forgo a white wig in favor of a slight dusting of powder on his light-brown hair. His coat and breeches were pale blue, offset by a gray waistcoat. This time, she noted, his six buttons were mother-of-pearl, and they were polished to a smooth shine. The lace at his neck and wrists was crisp and white. He was, in fact, unnervingly handsome.
He met her eyes. “May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
Did the Duke of Kelbrook know how to dance? The question was ridiculous. Of course he did. And yet, up until three days ago, she could not have envisioned the ungainly youth or the habitually absent adult doing anything so societal.
He raised one eyebrow, and to her horror, she realized she had yet to lower her eyes or respond. She hid her agitation in a curtsy. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”
He smiled and offered her his hand. She took it. His fingers were strong, yet his touch was gentle. He led her back onto the dance floor, and Rosalind felt the stares.
“Why are you here, Your Grace?”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Believe it or not, I was invited.”
Warmth flooded her cheeks. What was wrong with her? Whenever she was in the presence of this man, she spoke out of turn.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that you were not welcome. Rather, I wonder what prompted you to accept the invitation when you so rarely attend such functions.”
This time, he met her eyes completely. “I came for you.”
“For me?” She stumbled, and his fingers tightened, steadying her as they took their places for the allemande.
“Indeed. And to alleviate any concern you may be harboring on the subject, I will add that despite my infrequent attendance at balls, I do know how to dance.”
Did the Duke of Kelbrook possess the gift of mind reading? If not, Rosalind’s face had surely given her away; it must be the color of a beetroot by now.
“I am glad to hear it,” she said, not daring to look at him. “But if memory fails, the steps are easily counted. The trick is to do so without moving one’s lips. That way no one else is aware you are doing it.”
He chuckled. “Is it possible that you know someone who may have employed that very device herself?”
She fought to keep a straight face. “For shame, Your Grace. Are you suggesting that my footwork is not what it should be?”
“I have yet to see you dance the allemande, Miss Ainsworth, but if your skills are commensurate with your counting proficiency, I fear that I shall be hard-pressed to keep up.”
