“He is attempting to maintain our agreement.”
“And you are both wretched for it.” She folded her arms, studying her sister with affectionate impatience. “Why notsimply abandon the thing? You are married. There is no impropriety in behaving as such.”
“He needs to know I choose freely.”
“And do you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“No ‘but.’” Lucy cut her off with a raised hand. “You choose him. He chooses you. The only obstacles remaining are his excessive honour and your shared stubbornness. Between the two of you, it is a miracle anything progresses at all.”
Before Celine could respond, Morrison appeared. “His Grace requests your presence in the ballroom, my lady.”
Celine found the Duke standing alone in the centre of the vast room, afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows and turning the polished floor to gold. He had removed his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled to the forearms—an unguarded, utterly distracting sight.
“Final practice,” he said without preamble. “For tomorrow.”
“We know how to dance.”
“We know how to danceproperly,” he corrected. “Tomorrow requires more than proper.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”
She went to him, placing her hand in his. He drew her closer than form demanded—close enough to feel the warmth of him, the restrained tension in his body.
“The new Viennese step,” he said. “We remain in contact throughout. No changing partners, no distance.”
“How convenient.”
“How dangerous.” His hand came to her waist, fingers spreading with deliberate care. “Follow my lead.”
He began to hum a waltz, drawing her into the first turn. It was more intimate than any dance she had known—fluid, closely held, a constant exchange of breath and balance. Their bodies aligned with each sweeping movement; his thigh brushed hers with every turn, and the heat of him seeped through her gown.
“You are thinking,” he murmured.
“I am counting steps.”
“Don’t count,” he said, tightening his hand at her waist just enough to draw her closer. “Feel.”
“Feeling, I’m starting to learn, is precisely what gets us into trouble.”
For a heartbeat, his expression shifted—something softer, unguarded, breaking through the iron restraint.
“Then,” he said quietly, deliberately, “be in trouble with me. Just for this one dance.”
She met his eyes—saw the challenge, the want—and exhaled. “Very well.”
She let go. Let him lead. The dance ceased to be steps and became something else entirely—a silent conversation, a question and answer, a promise. His hand at her waist guided her; his other hand held hers with a peculiar tenderness. When he spun her, her skirts wrapped around his legs. When he dipped her, she trusted him without thought.
When they finally stopped, both breathing unevenly, he said, low and certain, “There. Like that.”
“That was…” She could not finish.
“What we will show them tomorrow,” he said. “Control and passion combined.”
“Can we?” she asked quietly. “Combine them?”
“We must.” His hand slipped from her waist, leaving a trail of warmth. “The alternative is…” He did not finish, but he didn’t need to. The alternative was surrender—and neither of them was entirely ready to face what that would mean.
“Tomorrow,” he said instead. “Tomorrow, we perform for society. We show them what they expect. And then…”
