“Why, capturing the uncapturable His Grace, the Duke of Rothwest! He’s refused every girl flung at him for five Seasons. We had despaired of him marrying at all.”
“Perhaps,” the Duke interjected smoothly, “I was simply waiting for the right woman.”
He said it lightly, but his hand found the small of Celine’s back—a touch that appeared supportive and felt unmistakably possessive.
“How romantic!” Lady Ashford breathed, eyes alight with ravenous delight. “And there we all believed you quite incapable of softer sentiments.”
“One’s capacities and one’s willingness to display them are rarely the same,” he replied. “Now, if you will excuse us, I promised my wife the first dance.”
He spirited Celine away before Lady Ashford could pounce again, navigating through the crush with implacable purpose.
“I don’t recall you promising me a dance,” she murmured.
“Would you rather have remained in Lady Ashford’s talons a moment longer?”
“Point taken.” She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, where couples assembled for a waltz. “I ought to warn you, I am not—by any stretch—an exceptional dancer.”
“You’ll do splendidly. I’m exceptional enough for both.”
It should have sounded unbearably arrogant. Instead, it merely proved true. When the music began, and he drew her into the steps, she understood why: he moved with absolute certainty, guiding her so skilfully she felt graceful by association.
“You’re doing it again,” she said as they turned.
“What precisely am I doing?”
“Controlling everything. Even this.”
“Would you prefer to stumble?”
“I’d prefer to be dancing with a man—not a puppeteer.”
His hand tightened infinitesimally at her waist. “You wish me to be less controlled?”
“I wish you to behuman.”
“Dangerous request.” He spun her, and for a heartbeat, she felt as though she floated. “Humans are unpredictable.”
“Yes,” she said. “Wonderfully so.”
Something shifted in his hold, became less technical and more... present. He was still leading, but now it felt like a conversation rather than a lecture. She could feel the heat of his hand through her gown, the strength in his shoulders beneath her palm.
“People are watching,” he murmured.
“Let them.”
“They’re wondering if it’s real.”
“What is?”
“This.” His breath brushed her ear. “Us. The fiction we’re spinning.”
“And what do you think they see?”
“A man dancing with his wife.” His thumb traced the barest arc against her waist. “A man who waited five Seasons for the right woman and married her the moment he could.”
“Is that the story we’re telling?”
“Unless you have a better one.”
