Page 43 of Reclaimed By Her Scottish Duke

“Give me that.” Leo pried the glass out of his grip before it shattered, and set it firmly out of reach. “You are making a face. People are beginning to notice it. Whatever you are about to do, I beg you to reconsider it in the strongest possible⁠—”

The music ended, but Magnus was already moving. He crossed the floor before Bracewell had finished his bow and stopped in front of Rosaline, close enough that the guests at the edge of the room could see him do it.

“Ye’re dancin’ with me next,” he declared.

Rosaline jutted her chin. “Your name is not on my dance card, Your Grace.”

“Then let’s mend that.” He took the little dance card from her gloved fingers before she could stop him, drew the pencil from its ribbon, and wrote his name across the next line in a bold black hand. He gave it back. “There. All in order. Shall we?”

Because the alternative was a scene, and a scene was the one thing she could not afford, Rosaline placed her hand in his and let him lead her back onto the dance floor.

The music began again, slower this time, and he drew her into the frame of it. God help him, she came like she had been made to fit there.

“Is that the sort of man ye ladies like, then?” He kept his voice low, for her ears only, and turned her through the figure. “Soft hands and a fine coat and eight thousand pounds a year? Is that what ye’re hopin’ to turn me into?”

“He’s exactly the sort of man I ought to want, Your Grace,” she whispered, and there was something underneath it she meant for him to catch.

He caught the wrong half of it. He heard want and missed ought entirely. His jaw set.

“Aye, no doubt.” He turned her and leaned in as the figure brought them close, his voice dropping further. “I’ll wager ye one thing, though, lass. Nae one of those safe, steady men ye ought to want has ever once made a woman moan.”

The color crawled up her throat and into her face, furious and immediate.

“That is… very improper, Your Grace.” Her voice shook. “And you had no right to ask me to dance. How exactly is this meant to help me? Half the room is watching a Scottish duke monopolize the lady he should be nowhere near.”

“On the contrary, ye should thank yer teacher.” He nodded his head toward the far side of the floor. “Look.”

She glanced over her shoulder. Bracewell had swept another lady onto the dance floor, a pretty girl in green, and was going through the motions of the dance with perfect courtesy. But his eyes were not on his partner at all. They were on Rosaline, following her helplessly across the room.

“Ye’ve enchanted the man half out of his senses,” Magnus murmured. “He’ll ask for ye again within the hour. That’s the lesson workin’, Rosaline. Congratulate yerself. Or better, congratulate me.”

She looked back at him, something in her going very warm and unsteady. He felt it beneath the hand on her waist, felt her come alive under his palm in a way she never had for Bracewell.

He drew her the smallest degree closer than the dance allowed.

“Ye’re nae stiff at all now, lass,” he said quietly, watching her face. “Nae a scrap of the fence post left in ye. So tell me, did ye do what I told ye? Did ye go home and explore yerself?”

Her breath caught. “I only tried being present,” she managed, barely audible. “As you said. That is all.”

“Aye.” Magnus did not believe a word of it, and could not have said which answer undid him more.

The dance ended, and she had barely stepped off the dance floor before Samuel grabbed her by the arm.

“You will never,” he said, smiling for the room, his fingers hard through her glove, “dance with that man again.”

“It was one dance, Samuel. Refusing a duke outright would have stirred far more talk than accepting.”

“Then you will find an excuse next time. A twisted ankle. A previous engagement. Anything.” His voice dropped beneath the music, cold and precise. “The Duke of Greythorne is a scandal on two legs, and he arrived in this country under a shadow that has not lifted. If you tie our name to his, you will not only ruin yourself, but you will also bury Beatrice and Ivy with you. Do you understand me? He will destroy this family’s good name simply by standing too close to it.”

“Greythorne. There you are. Come, there is someone who wants a proper quarter of an hour with you.”

Ulverton had him by the elbow before Magnus had gotten his temper back under control, steering him across the room with the proprietary warmth of a man showing off a promising acquisition.

Magnus followed him, because this was why he was here, and let himself be delivered before the Earl of Oldbrook, unhurried, standing exactly as he had stood at the Pemberton musicale, as though he had not troubled to move in the weeks between.

“You two have met, I think. The Pemberton musicale, was it not? Badly done, though, in a crush and with the harpist still going. Oldbrook, I promised you the man himself. Lately come south, and rather better company than the rumors would have you believe.”

This time, Oldbrook did not merely acknowledge him. He looked, and for the briefest instant, he went perfectly still. Something flashed in his pale eyes, but it was gone before Magnus could put a word to it, smoothed over into the untroubled courtesy of a man who had never been surprised by anything in his life.