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“You want to dance, though,” he observed, ducking his head a little to meet her gaze.
“I don’t.”
“You lie. Your foot is tapping in time to the music.”
She glanced down. “Involuntarily. I’m a musician. I keep time with music.”
“I think you want to be on the dance floor joining in the fun. Wallflower doesn’t suit you. You’re far too merry and bright.”
“You make me sound like the description of a yuletide celebration.”
“Precisely. You’re a flickering, dancing flame. A hot mug of spiced cider with brandy.” His gaze intensified. “A kiss under the mistletoe.”
A heated flush crept up her neck. Did he think about kissing when he looked at her? Because that’s really all she ever thought about when she stood this close to him.
Close enough to see the faint shadowing of whiskers along his strong jawline. Smell the scent of his musky cologne. Feel the charged atmosphere that crackled around him, pulling her in, making her long to touch him.
Did he feel it, too?
“And you’re . . .” she whispered, searching her duke-addled mind for a way to put a swift end to this inappropriate intimacy. “You’re soused on brandy. You must have mistaken me for your fiancée. The woman who should be receiving your compliments.”
“Ah.” He cleared his throat. “I think she’s receiving enough compliments at the moment.”
They watched as Miss Chandler flirted simultaneously with five different gentlemen who hung on her every word, devouring her with their eyes.
“And I have a feeling that you haven’t received nearly enough in your lifetime,” he added.
“I don’t want compliments. Or dance partners.”
“Why not? You have strong opinions about love and courtship and living a fulfilled life and yet here you are, watching from the wings. It’s natural to want more for yourself, Viola. Youshouldwant more.”
“I’m perfectly content with my lot in life, Your Grace,” she said, a little stiffly. “I won’t let spinsterhood relegate me to an empty life. I find fulfilment in caring for my father, nurturing his career, and those of my friends. Imparting the joy of music to others through my teaching.”
“You’re about to be engaged for a dance.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s a young gentleman with ginger-colored hair approaching. He’s not bad looking, either. He’s been staring at you for the last hour and has finally gathered the courage to make his move.”
Viola searched the room, finding the gentleman in question who did appear to be heading her way. He looked familiar for some reason, though she couldn’t quite place him. “He must have me confused with someone else.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh dear.”
“Now then,” the duke said. “After you dance with him, you’ll dance with me. That should set tongues wagging enough to ensure you’re in demand the rest of the evening. Where’s your dance card?”
“I don’t have a dance card and I’m not stepping out with anyone. I must keep an eye on your sisters.”
“They have Aunt Miriam to watch over them. They’re all dancing now. Even Betsy.”
Betsy wasn’t a very graceful dancer but every time she stumbled or stepped on her partner’s toes she broke out into an impish grin, which made Viola wonder if perhaps she was feigning ineptitude on purpose to give her partners grief.
“Acknowledge that you could have dance partners if you wanted them,” Westbury said.
“I won’t. Because it’s not true.”
“Look around us, it’s not only Ginger Hair who’s noticed you. You’ve received more than your share of admiring glances because you’re bonny, Viola.”
