Page 88 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“You most certainly are.”

He cleared his throat with exaggerated dignity. “I believe you are imagining things.”

Rosalind laughed, the sound escaping before she could stop it.

She had intended to ask about the auction house. About the missing clerk. About whether he had uncovered anything since their afternoon meeting.

Instead, she found herself noticing altogether different things.

A lock of pale hair refused to remain neatly combed, falling across his forehead often enough that he brushed it away with an absent sweep of his fingers. Candlelight caught the crisp folds of his white cravat and the strong line of his collar, while the steady warmth of his gloved hand rested reassuringly against hers as they turned through the waltz.

Then there was his smile.

Every time their eyes met, however briefly, it returned so naturally that she almost forgot they were merely pretending.

Almost.

She drew a quiet breath, forcing herself to concentrate.

The investigation. She ought to ask about the investigation.

The thought had barely formed when the ballroom suddenly seemed far warmer than it had only moments before. The music blurred strangely at the edges, laughter echoing together until individual voices became impossible to distinguish.

Even the chandeliers overhead seemed brighter, their countless candles scattering light that shimmered uncomfortably before her eyes.

She swallowed. “William…”

His smile vanished instantly. “What is it?”

She attempted one of her own, though she suspected it looked less convincing than his ever had.

“Unless you wish me to imitate Lady Sophronia and provide half of London with another dramatic swoon...” She drew another careful breath. “...I think I should very much like a little fresh air.”

His brows drew together. “Allow me to escort you.”

She glanced around the crowded ballroom, where curious eyes seemed to linger upon them no matter where they stood. “You'll only encourage more gossip.”

“I believe,” he replied with the faintest smile, “that encouraging gossip is presently our objective.”

Despite the warmth creeping through her limbs, she laughed softly. “I shall only be a few moments.”

He studied her for another heartbeat, clearly unconvinced. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

Only then did he relent, though the concern remained plainly written across his face. “I will be here when you return.”

Rosalind inclined her head before slipping quietly from the ballroom. Almost immediately the cooler air of the gallery met her flushed face, carrying with it the faint scent of polished wood, beeswax, and the roses drifting through the open doors overlooking the gardens.

The music softened behind her until it became little more than a distant accompaniment to the murmur of conversation echoing through the house.

She had intended to make her way to the ladies' retiring room.

Instead, she found her mother standing alone beside one of the open French doors, one gloved hand resting lightly against the stone balustrade as she gazed out across the moonlit terrace.

Even from several paces away, Rosalind could see the weariness in her face. “Mama?”

Her mother turned, managing a gentle smile that failed to hide her exhaustion. “There you are.”