Hades’ lips moved and the Duke of Rothwell’s gaze lowered. She discerned the very moment it hit her red curls as a single line creased his forehead.
The line doubled as his eyes met hers and trebled as it took in her gown.
She paused before them and gave a curtsey. After all, they had been introduced…in a fashion. “Your Grace. What a coincidence.”
“Mrs Swift.” He bowed, hair glinting with Midas gold in the candlelight.
Nothing more was said, but Evelyn refused to take her leave or grant him the pleasure of gabbling like a ninny, so she instead twiddled a curl and acted nonchalant despite her heart racing like a pack of rabid dogs.
The second gentleman tapped an ebony cane to the floor – how vulgar at a ball – but she supposed no one dared gainsay that harsh mien. Shady-jade eyes raked her from curl to slipper. “Known to you, Rothwell?”
The duke’s gaze travelled about her face and then journeyed to her bosom with no attempt whatsoever at subtlety. Ballroom etiquette had certainly evolved since her youth or maybe it was the title of widow that adjusted a man’s thinking.
“Merely an…acquaintance,” he declared. “Mrs Swift, may I introduce, His Grace, the Duke of Rakecombe.”
Oh.
The trouble with Flora’s curse was that it left no room for advancement. She now required something coarser than sodding hell.
Because everyone, from Rookery villains to aristocratic nobles alike had read of this second duke’s reputation: pitiless. And they appeared to be cronies. Maybe dukes did grow on trees after all.
“A pleasure,” she said brightly.
His Grace Number Two took her gloved hand as though it were coated with arsenic and bowed. “And how did you become…acquaintances?” His lips curved, eyes that shone a little darker than her own narrowing.
“I possess something His Grace wants.” Whereupon she winced. That could have been phrased better.
“I’m sure you do.” A vague curl of lip traversed the Duke of Rakecombe’s dark features, and she glanced at Rothwell to discover…an amused grin.
Will wonders never cease.
“Mrs Swift,” grouched Rothwell, removing her hand from Duke Number Two and placing it upon his own arm. “We will dance.”
Sodding, sodding,soddinghell.
Chapter 8
Three stars out of five: could have done better.
Casper intended this as an assessment, of course.
The dance.
To watch for any suggestion that Mrs Swift was notau faitwith the steps, etiquette or protocol. To prove she was a fake.
On no account was it because he wished to hold her close.
Ignoring Rakecombe’s smirk, he tugged her compliant body to the dance floor as the orchestra struck-up with the first violin strains of a waltz – palms clasped, his fingers seized her waist, a white satin glove ever so leisurely climbed to his shoulder.
Minx.
The waltz began and without conversation or preamble, he swept her into a slow twirl.
She passed, damn it.
Light on her feet and with no movement of lips to count the beats, she wove in his arms without pause or flurry.
Not a word between them but the very air simmered with intensity as she faultlessly executed the turn, and he was left in no doubt that whatever had befallen Mrs Swift, she had, at some point, been taught the manners of a lady.
