“Yes, Your Grace.” This was uttered with such a listless tone, it was clearly a pelter.
“You don’t care for dancing?” he queried, wondering what in blazes she did care for.
“No, Your Grace.” Silence.
“If you could do whatever you pleased, what would it be?”
“I hardly know, Your Grace.” At this point he was longing for Miss Watson’s lively conversation. Silence ensued after that as he was at a loss as to how to draw the lady out, and she made no attempt to engage him in conversation. She performed the stepsof the dance competently enough, but with little enthusiasm. Her whole demeanor was of someone who wanted desperately to be somewhere else. Yet when he gave her to opportunity to express that desire, she declined to take it.
He returned her to her mother’s side and beat a hasty retreat. Really, the whole evening had been a blasted waste of time. He sought out Ashford and Caro and bade them goodnight. Ashford offered him the opportunity to come home with them and share a drink, but he wasn’t in the mood to be sociable.
His mood wasn’t improved when he got home and discovered a pile of bills waiting for him. Including a debt of his brother’s, Lord Kenrick, for five hundred pounds! He dashed off a livid note to his youngest brother demanding that he explain himself, then took himself off to bed to fume and fret. Between ridiculous debts, the widow’s refusal, and the inability to find Miss Watson this evening he was in a rare taking.
The next night, at his third ball for the evening, close on one o’clock, he finally found Miss Watson. She was just coming off the dance floor on the arm of Lord Exforth, whereupon she was besieged by a bevy of admirers. Word had got out about her fortune, clearly. It was easy to see, even at this distance, that this unaccustomed popularity was flustering her.
He crossed the room with rapid strides, managing to avoid being waylaid by several matchmaking mamas, and reached her side. Catching her eyes with his, he smiled and offered a bow and an arm. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe the next dance is mine.”
Holding her gaze, he challenged her to deny him. For a split second he thought she might. Then she inclined her head in acknowledgement and, placing her hand on his arm, let him lead her away from the disappointed group of males. There were some advantages to being a duke, after all.
Tonight, she was wearing a white muslin gown over a sea-green satin slip with silver trimming. And her reticule did not appear to contain any books. “Do you care to dance, or would you like to take a stroll in the gardens? It is disgustingly hot in here,” he said.
“Yes, some fresh air would be most welcome,” she said with a rather fixed smile. “Your rescue was quite timely,” she added with a sideways glance that made his heart trip in an odd fashion. He could have sworn that was another glare she threw at him. The lady seemed to change mood faster than the weather.Or is it just a trick of the light in her sherry-colored eyes?
“You looked besieged,” he said, holding the curtain aside for her.
“I was.” She frowned as they stepped through the open French windows onto the terrace. “Word of my fortune has spread, and now I am the cynosure of all eyes.”
“The world is regrettably mercenary,” he said with a twinge of guilt as he led her down the steps into the garden proper. There were a number of couples taking advantage of the cooler air, and he set a sedate pace for their stroll down a path between trees forming a canopy overhead. The moonlight filtered through the branches and gave the illusion of privacy, although they were not truly alone. The murmur of the other couples’ voices could still be heard against the backdrop of the fainter sounds of music and conversation from the ballroom. “I looked for you in vain at Almack’s last night,” he said.
“Lady Holbrook had a headache, so we didn’t go,” she replied.
“I was disappointed,” he said, deciding to go all in. “I wanted to see you, perhaps reprise our waltz?”
“Really? It has been a week, Your Grace.” Her voice was gentle, but he fancied there was a slight edge to it. He flushed.
“Yes, I’ve been a little busy.”
“I gather that your pursuit of the Countess of Esbury did not prosper,” she said flatly. He stiffened as if poked with a hat pin. His instinct was to protest that he didn’t take her meaning, but she didn’t give him a chance. “You haven’t seen the latest caricature?”
“No, I haven’t,” he said slowly.
“It’s quite amusing.” She didn’t look amused. “But then you must be used to being the butt of satire, being a duke and all,” she added with a drawl.
“You have a sharp wit, Miss Watson.” He spoke shortly, more than a little annoyed.
“You see, I couldn’t fathom why you suddenly took an interest in me after three seasons of ignoring me. Now I know why.” She came to a stop and turned. “I have had enough fresh air now, Your Grace. Please return me to the ballroom.”
He felt winded for a moment. The problem was he couldn’t deny that she was right without making a liar of himself, and that went against all his principles. “You are perfectly correct in your assumptions, Miss Watson. My circumstances make it imperative that I find a wealthy wife. I can assure you it is something that I find of equal abhorrence to yourself.”
It was her turn to stiffen. Then her mouth fell open. “I have been insulted in all sorts of ways in my three years on the marriage mart, Your Grace, but I think you have just topped the list! If I am so abhorrent to you—!”
“Good heavens, I did not mean you were abhorrent!” he said testily. “I meant that the circumstances were as abhorrent to me as I am sure they are to you. Contracting a marriage of convenience was the last thing I wished to do.”
“Why? I would have thought that for one of your station it would be expected.”
“That may be, but I can assure you it is not the expected thing in my family.”
“It isn’t?”
