Page 25 of Manufacturing a Duchess

At the next pause, Aurora sought out Missie. “That young woman—did you see her? She is green, Missie! Just like Sarah became at Miss F’s before she was taken home.”

Missie broke off her delicate nibbling of a tiny pastry with a sniff. “She has the green sickness, you ninny. Oh, to be so fashionably thin. The only cure they say is bloodletting, or marriage and bearing children. Though, being that color, it likely won’t be the suitor of her choice. Anyone else, practically, I would say. A most unbecoming shade in actuality. How delicate she looks!”

“It appears most unnatural, Missie. Poor thing.”

“Poor thing, fustian!” In spite of her careful air of disinterest, a tiny upward curve of her mouth told Aurora her friend was reveling in the evening. Before they could talk more, however, Missie was claimed by her next partner and went off with him for a gavotte.

And then he was standing in front of her, giving her the briefest of bows accompanied by a suddenly dazzling smile. Alec Raeburn, the Duke of Selkirk. Aurora almost stopped breathing. She took the hand he offered and followed him out onto the floor where the couples who had been approved were gathering for the waltz. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Missie stepping forward with the Duke of Galloway, lightly holding his hand and letting his other hand clasp her waist. Aurora let herself be steered by the Duke of Selkirk into position. They stood so close, even if ostensibly still at the regulated distance, she could feel the heat of his body. For the first time in her life, she was sorely tempted to swoon. With that not an option, she leaned into the dance’s embrace and began to circle the floor.

It took a few turns before her brain stopped hopping about and she could focus on her partner. He was watching her with a slight smile, which brightened when she felt her eyes begin to take in her actual surroundings. She looked more directly at him.

“There you are,” he said, “You weren’t quite there for a minute or two.”

“This is my first waltz.” At his chuckle, Aurora found her tongue. “As clearly you knew.” She gave a slight exhale. “It is quite lovely, actually.”

“I am glad you are enjoying it. Any Homeric quotes for the occasion?”

She blushed, realizing the Duke of Galloway had revealed her slip. But this time, she was surprised to find herself not apologizing. “Homer would have written a very different type of poetry if they had waltzed in Classical times. No, something more along the lines of Keats, I would think. Or Lord Byron.”

At that, Alec laughed. It was a relaxed sound, no irony or bark in it at all.

“Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,

Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,

And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,

Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?”

Aurora gaped at him. She sputtered for a moment and then said, “You are a wicked, wicked man, Your Grace.”

Alec gave her a mischievous smile. “I confess I could not help it. I am, however, far from being mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps this stanza would be more appropriate?”

“Not in those climes where I have late been straying,

Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,

Not in those visions to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,

Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beamed⁠—

To such as see thee not my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?”

Being this close to him, looking into his eyes, hearing him recite poetry to her in this lovely, soft baritone rumble was causing a painful constriction in Aurora’s chest, an impairment of her ability to breathe. “Yes, quite,” was all she could get out. And then, “Perhaps we should confine ourselves to Keats.”

This led Alec to throw his head back and laugh out loud again. His eyes were warm and affectionate. She detected no mockery in his teasing, more a note of friendship. Their bodies fit together, easily moving in the dance’s steps. She hoped her hand, held in his, was not sweating. The touch of his other hand on her waist kept her cheeks exceedingly warm. But she eventually relaxed into the practiced steering of his arms and became comfortable in the closeness of their bodies to one another. She felt as if she were dancing on air, and his arms were the one thing which kept her tethered to the earth. All too soon, the waltz ended. The two of them stayed connected for another moment, which seemed, to Aurora, to hold them, suspended. She wasn’t sure she wanted it ever to stop.

Then it did. The Duke of Selkirk took a step back and released her from his embrace. He gave her a slight bow, and she returned a curtsy. When he escorted her back to Lady Wentworth, however, there was a sense of ease between them, and the faintest crackle of something else. He bowed again. Was there a touch of regret in his eyes? She turned at the voice whispering at her shoulder and missed his departure until their next dance, which required several more partners to go through first.

“Really, Rorie, you are such a complete goose. No gentleman likes to be so obviously mooned over.” There was an edge to that familiar voice, a note of waspish sharpness directed at Aurora that she was coming to dread.