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“I hope to push every limit,” Ewan said.
Suddenly, Penelope appeared before them once more. She crossed her slender arms over her chest and looked positively void of joy. “The entire party is up in arms about Baldwin.”
Marta arched her brow, conscious that Penelope’s eyes scanned her face, her neck, the top of her bosom. She’d never felt under such a disdainful gaze.
“Whatever do you mean?” Ewan asked. He seemed to put on a stupid, almost arrogant air, the tone suited to annoy her.
“I mean that Baldwin is in attendance. Some people assume that he might take part in many more events throughout the season. And it seems that most of them comprehend precisely why,” Penelope said. Her eyes shot daggers towards Marta.
“Is it because of the free wine? We all know that Baldwin wants to become a lust, but has never had the confidence to go for it,” Ewan said.
Penelope’s cheeks reddened. “I’ve never appreciated your humour, Ewan.”
“And I’ve never appreciated your cheekbones, although I feel incredibly sure that they could murder me with their point,” Ewan returned.
Suddenly, Lord Remington appeared behind Penelope. His eyes were formidable, dominant. Penelope whipped back and glared at him. “I suppose you’re here to speak with Marta, like everyone else.”
Ewan let out a wry laugh. Lord Remington didn’t give any indication that he’d heard what she’d said. Rather, he stepped forward and gave a slight bow. “I hope you’ll do me the honour of dancing with me just once, Fraulein.”
Marta knew she had to agree if only to ensure that no added gossip would swirl around them. Besides, she knew that her aunt would wish to learn still more about her “budding” affair with him. She needed to have fresh information to proceed with breakfast the following day.
Penelope stalked off as Marta stepped up and joined herself with the Duke. With every motion she made, she felt regretful. She detested his smell, a musk that seemed wood-like and simmering with sweat. She supposed nobody ever mentioned his stench, due to his incredible power. She prayed that one day she would find the chance.
“You look beautiful, Marta. As usual,” the Duke began.
Their feet tapped about beneath them. Marta felt as though her feet betrayed her. Why couldn’t she fumble about, fall to the side? Why did her body play along?
“Thank you. Your handsomeness rivals the greatest men at this very party,” Marta said sarcastically.
The Duke laughed grotesquely. Marta wondered if he’d chosen to believe her clearly-mocking remark.
“I love your pep. Your personality. It is far more than I bargained for, upon my first conversation with your aunt,” the Duke said.
“My Aunt Margaret seems to have a very clear idea of where my life should go,” Marta returned. “I dare say she should be a fiction writer.”
“You believe her thoughts to lack truth?” he asked.
“I cannot speak ill of my aunt with a near-stranger,” Marta said.
“And yet, I don’t perceive myself to be any stranger in your life,” the Duke countered. His eyes grew shadowed with anger. “In fact, I believe what you say to be something of a criticism. I may need to take a good, hard look at the way I’ve interacted with you. In my mind, we’re far more than strangers.”
“Perhaps you had better take a good, hard look,” Marta said.
“You’re remarkably clever, Marta. Any man should fancy you. But I know you to be better suited to me than to any other man in the county,” the Duke continued.
“You seem rather clear about your opinion. I suppose that’s a good thing. A man should always know what he wants, regardless of whether he receives it. It shows good intention,” Marta said.
“Tell me. What can I do, Marta? What can I do to bring you to never speak with Baldwin Terrence again?”
Marta let out a fluttery laugh. “I’ve told you countless times, now, My Lord. Baldwin is like family.”
“And I know if I’m not careful, he’ll become far more than that,” the Duke returned.
The song finished. Marta gave him an eager smile and said, “I wish you all the luck in the world,” before turning back. Almost immediately, her eyes found Baldwin’s. Her heart lurched. She lent him a secret smile, then pressed her finger to her lips and gave him a slight shake of the head. The scene at the dance felt far too volatile for continued conversation. She would explain it to him the following day, in secret. She would tell him that all she yearned for was to be latched in his arms, to gaze into his eyes, to feel his lips upon hers.
Yes. That was to be the final time she had any correspondence with the Duke. Many years from then, she would perhaps see him on the road and gaze at him as though he were but a stranger. One moment, she would see him, and the next, she would blink away. Perhaps she wouldn’t even notice. Perhaps it would mean nothing at all.
