“She succeeded.” Her cheeks were flushed from the dance, exalting her large black eyes. He’d never seen eyes that dark, shiny and glossy.
“What’s your favourite dance?” Anthony asked.
“The waltz.” She fanned herself. “I’m looking forward to dancing. The orchestra hasn’t played it yet. I guess the maestro is reserving it as the supper dance.”
Damn. “Of course. I would consider myself honoured if you would agree to dance the waltz with me.”
Her smile became a little strained. “I believe Helen would like to dance the waltz with you. She’s over there, talking with a friend. I’ll fetch her for you.”
“I wish to dance with you.”
Something flickered in her gaze. “In that case, I accept. A lady never refuses a duke.”
“You can, if you want. I don’t want you to feel forced, but I don’t want to dance the waltz with Helen. I trust you to tell me what you think every time.”
Her expression softened, and the warmth in her eyes reached his heart. “I would love to dance with you, Anthony.”
He loved the intimacy of his name on her lips. “Excellent. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I need a word with the maestro.”
He weaved through the throng of guests, almost bumping into his grandmother going the opposite way.
“What are you doing?” Grandmama looked alarmed. “What’s the hurry?”
“The maestro must play the supper waltz.”
She wiggled a finger to say no. “Out of the question. He’s already received the order to play only slow contredanses.”
“Sorry, Grandmama, but I’m going to dance the waltz with Isabella,” he said in a tone that hopefully would discourage further arguments.
Her countenance cracked for a split second. “You must be joking. You haven’t danced with Lady Coulter-Smith yet. She’s the highest-ranking lady guest present.”
“I promised the waltz to Isabella. I won’t change my mind.”
She craned her neck in the direction of Isabella who was talking with Patrick. “Oh no. Don’t tell me…” She beckoned him to follow her with her fan.
He guessed he ought to inform her of his decision. He smiled and bowed at his guests, catching a glimpse of Lady Montrose and Helen. He wouldn’t enjoy disappointing Helen, but surely, she would agree with him that they weren’t compatible in the least. Likely, she’d been trapped by her mother and Grandmama into an arranged marriage with a duke and didn’t know how to get out of it. He would give her a way out.
Grandmama slipped into a parlour and locked them in. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t want to marry Helen. I want Isabella.”
The moment of shocked silence lowered the room temperature.
“Why not Helen? She’s perfect.”
“She doesn’t have an opinion of her own. I spent days with her without learning anything about her. She agrees to everything I say.”
Grandmama opened her arms. “And what is the problem with that?”
“You didn’t agree with everything Grandpapa said, did you?”
She pressed her lips in a hard line, her eyes narrowing to slits. “We aren’t talking about me. If you don’t like Helen, you can find someone else. Someone who will be a better wife than Isabella. She’s too…” She waved a hand. “Did you see her gown? That pink is too strong, and she’s far too happy to be a duchess. She doesn’t speak French and isn’t accomplished in anything.”
“Isabella is very clever and always expresses her opinions without being intimidated by me. That’s why I like her.” And because she was the essence of life itself, wrapped in pink silk. “And I’m going to dance the supper waltz with her.” Which meant he would escort her to supper and sit next to her at the dinner table.
“She has too many opinions,” Grandmama said.
“Thank goodness for that.”
