Within an hour Faircliffe had presented her and Tommy to all of the other guests at the party.
Sometimes more than once.
Chloe was used to this reaction. Or non-reaction. She didn’t stick in people’s heads. Theysawher, at least for the brief exchange of words during which she was right in front of their faces, but as soon as she stepped away, it was as though she tugged her memory from their minds in the process.
Faircliffe was not having it at all.
“Wynchester,” he repeated forcefully to the Marquess of Rosbotham. “As you may recall from my introduction less than ten minutes ago.”
Chloe kept her brittle smile in place. Even if someone didn’t forget her naturally, they did so purposefully once they learned her name. That was, until recently. She peered up at Faircliffe. It was heady to have someone as important as a duke outraged on her behalf.
Lady Ainsworth chose that moment to welcome her guests into the formal dining room.
As he had predicted, Faircliffe sat too far down the long table for them to overhear snippets of each other’s conversation, much less speak to one another.
As Chloe had both hoped and feared, he was still within sight.
She could not touch the contours of his lips, the hard lines of his jaw, but she knew how they felt, could not rid the memory from her mind.
Unfortunately, her imagination was as close as she could get. He was seated next to Philippa, with whom he intended to share meals for ever after. The unwanted reminder ruined what was left of Chloe’s appetite. The wise thing to do was to keep her eyes on her plate. Nothing good could come of watching Faircliffe and Philippa in intimate conversation.
Chloe should definitely not spend the evening darting hungry glances toward the handsome duke.
Especially when she kept catching him gazing back at her.
Shivers of awareness tickled up and down her skin. Nobody knew he had kissed her. Perhaps nobody would believe it, even if she told them. But she knew. She remembered. She couldn’t close her eyes without feeling the hardness of his muscles beneath her palms, the heat of his mouth slanting across hers.
And she couldn’t lift her gaze to his face without wanting to do it all over again.
She had to get out of here before she gave herself away.
Somehow she survived all six courses. After the blancmange, she was ready to bolt, but then Lady Ainsworth clapped her hands and said, “Now for the dancing!”
A sharp burst of longing, white-hot and razor edged, sliced through her.
How she wanted to dance with Faircliffe—wanted to be fully in his embrace—but, more than that, wanted everyone else to see her as he saw her. Someone desirable, irresistible. Someone he could not prevent himself from kissing, no matter how valiantly he tried.
Not that he would admit to finding her kissable. Her throat grew thick. If his peers couldn’t imagine him attending a social event with her on purpose, they wouldn’t believe he’d want her in his arms.
She should go. She shoulddefinitelygo. Watching him dance with everyone but her was a terrible idea.
But she stayed. Just in case.
There was one waltz. Faircliffe did not stand up for it with Chloe. He hadn’t spoken to her since being seated for supper. The waltz was reserved for Miss Philippa York.
Chloe couldn’t even hate her for it. Philippa was doing exactly what Chloe would do if Chloe were in Philippa’s dancing slippers.
Well, almost everything. Philippa did not appear gratified to find herself the lucky object of the Duke of Faircliffe’s attentions.
For years Chloe had fantasized she could burst from her dressing room and into a ballroom dressed as her real self, not her blending-with-the-wood-grain self. Not to show up the beau monde but rather to be bold because shecould. To just once know what it felt like to strut into a place like this wearing, saying, and doing anything she pleased—and be accepted anyway. Not just to be herself, but tobelong.
But she’d given up such dreams long, long ago.
When Lady Ainsworth announced that the second-to-last set of the evening would be a pair of country-dances, Chloe still sat along a forgotten wall with Tommy.
Until a gentleman stepped into her path.
“Is this dance spoken for?” It was Lord Southerby. The handsome rascal who found tigers exhilarating.
