Monstrosity?“Lord Michael, you should not... it’s just—”
He leaned closer, his mouth now a faint line. “Was this the duke’s idea?”
She should be relieved, but Clara also felt more mortified. This was getting out of hand, and someone could easily hear his fresh talk to her. “You should not be talking to a lady like this.”
“Ah, so, yes. He’s the one who wanted you wrapped as if all your ribs were broken. To turn you into something you are not.”
“Lord Michael, really—” But Clara looked at him closer as his cheeks darkened and his eyes widened, the glee turning to something darker. Anger.
Why is he angry?
He turned toward the dance floor, his gaze running along the outside walls.
“He is outside.” With her voice low, she touched his arm. “Lord Michael. Please. I agreed to this.”
Michael lowered his head a moment, then peered back at her. “You are in pain. I see it in your eyes.”
“All women deal with some sort of pain in the name of beauty.”
He winced. “Which is pure rubbish. He has no respect for your—” He glanced at her décolletage again, and his breath stalled. He scrubbed his mouth with one hand, looking around the room again. “He wants you on display. To show Society you are worthy of being his duchess.” His head jerked toward the terrace doors. “I will kill him,” he muttered.
Clara clutched his forearm, her chest tightening in desperation, her voice a low hiss. “Michael! You must stop! Please.”
He looked back at her, drawing a ragged breath.
Her grip tightened. “You must listen. Wykeham is not Hadleyton. You cannot pick him up by his cravat and thrust him into the wall.”
“In truth, I could,” he whispered. “But so could a strong wind.”
The image almost made Clara smile. “He would call you out. He’s a duke. And you absolutely cannot—cannot—thrust your family into more scandal.”
He took a deep breath, and he seemed to relax a bit as his expression turned tender. “It would be worth it. You would be worth it.”
She focused on his face, words escaping her again.“You would be worth it.”She whispered his name.
Slowly he straightened, a smile creasing his face as he took a step away from her. “Perhaps,” he whispered, “we should dance.”
Clara shook her head. “I’m not supposed to—”
“I doubt your mother would stop us in the middle of a ball.”
This time she did smile. “You know this is a risky proposition.”
“The duke will call me out for dancing with you?”
The smile turned into a grin. “No. New dress. New slippers. I could very well trip us both onto a table of lemonade.”
“I am not very good either. Perhaps between the two of us, we can manage one dance.” Michael reached down and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “But if you fall, I will catch you. I will always catch you.”
Clara’s throat tightened, and whatever resistance she had crumbled. She glanced quickly at her dance card, and her words turned hoarse. “It is a Lancers Quadrille.”
Michael’s opposite hand covered hers. “Do you know it?”
“Barely.”
“We will survive.”
This time, she did laugh, allowing him to lead her onto the floor as the orchestra tuned again and settled for the start. They took their place in a square with three other couples. The ranking member of the group, and thus first gentleman of the dance, was a duke from the Lake District and his wife Sarah, a lady Clara had known for several years. She smiled at them although her husband looked somewhat askance at Michael.
