She fled before they could protest.
Peter stood near the refreshments table with another young man, both dressed in the self-conscious elegance of Cambridge gentlemen recently acquired enough town polish to feel superior.
“Cressida!” His face brightened. “There you are. Allow me to introduce Lord Prampton. We were at Trinity together. Prampton, this is my sister, the Duchess of Ashmere.”
Lord Prampton bowed with easy confidence. “Your Grace. Peter has spoken of you often.”
“Nothing too damaging, I hope.”
“On the contrary.” Prampton’s eyes held friendly warmth. “He’s been singing your praises. Though he failed to mention your quick wit.”
“That’s because witnessing it usually comes at his expense,” Cressida observed.
Peter clutched at his chest with theatrical anguish. “You wound me, Sister. Here I am, introducing you to one of my dearest friends, and you immediately make me the object of mockery.”
“Someone must keep your ego in check,” Cressida retorted. “Otherwise, Cambridge would have inflated it beyond all recognition.”
“He already is insufferable,” Prampton said cheerfully. “Last week, he spent an entire evening explaining the superiority of Cambridge rowing techniques to a table full of Oxford men.”
“I was educating them,” Peter protested.
“You were being pompous.”
“There’s a difference?”
Cressida laughed, genuine, unguarded laughter that felt like breathing after being underwater.
Across the ballroom, Theodore’s attention snapped to the sound.
He’d extricated himself from Bartley’s interminable railway discussion to find his wife laughing. With another man. A young, handsome man who was looking at her with entirely too much appreciation.
Theodore’s hands clenched at his sides. Rational thought evaporated beneath sudden possessive fury.
The orchestra began tuning for the next set. Theodore watched, jaw clenched, as the stranger offered his hand to Cressida.
He was moving before a conscious decision formed.
His strides across the ballroom carried the focused intensity of a predator. Guests scattered from his path. Conversations died mid-sentence. He reached them just as Cressida was about to accept the man’s hand.
His fingers closed around her wrist. “My dance, I believe.”
“Duke—” Cressida’s eyes widened. “Lord Prampton was just?—”
Theodore didn’t look at the other man. He pulled Cressida toward the dance floor with enough force that she had to scramble to keep pace.
Chapter Seventeen
“You’re being rude tonight,” Cressida said, her voice pitched low enough that nearby couples wouldn’t hear the reproach, yet sharp enough to cut.
Theodore’s grip on her waist tightened in response. “I’m not the one who spent the evening laughing with another gentleman.”
The violins swelled, their melody at odds with the tension crackling between them. Cressida could map every point of contact—his palm burning through emerald silk at her waist, his fingers wrapped around hers with enough force to leave her hand aching.
“Lord Prampton was being pleasant. A quality you might consider cultivating.”
“Pleasant.” Theodore’s jaw could have been carved from granite. “Is that what you call a man courting my wife’s attention?”
“I wasn’t aware polite conversation constituted courtship.”
