Chapter 7

Anthony jabbed William in the ribs. "Forgive me if I am mistaken, for I have never married before, but I believe you are supposed to dance with your wife. You are not supposed to mingle with the guests, speaking to everyone but your wife."

They were in the ballroom at Stonebridge House, which the staff had spent all week scrubbing and repairing as best they could. Truly, William thought it quite remarkable what could be hidden with some carefully placed, and painstakingly painted, dust cloths.

Even so, there was an unmistakable, faded glory to the room, not to mention the rest of the manor. A sad decay that no amount of paint or soap could fully eradicate.

"I sat beside her during the wedding breakfast. I said at least three things to her," William replied, searching the room. In truth, he had no idea where his wife was. "I asked if she would pass me the salt, I said her bonnet was nice, and I enquired as to whether or not she liked the fish. It was the quietest I have known her to be, and rather pleasant it was, too."

Anthony gave him a withering look. "It is expected, Brother. You must dance with her."

"I have done what is expected. I have married someone. The rest is optional."

Anthony grabbed William's arm. "Must I drag you to her myself?"

"I should like to see you try." William laughed, for though his brother was not small or puny by any means, he was no match for him. Anthony knew it as well as he did.

"Just… give the poor girl a little flourish of joy, would you?" Anthony said, exasperated. "You embarrassed her at the church when you did not even kiss her cheek. You embarrassed her at the wedding breakfast by talking to Sir Matthew the entire time. It does not matter if this is a marriage of convenience, Brother. It does not hurt to make your wife feel… liked, at least! In your case, appreciated for her sacrifice."

William arched an eyebrow. "What sacrifice? She is getting more than most ladies could dream of."

"But what has she dreamed of?" Anthony challenged. "A better wedding day than you are giving her, I am certain."

William found his bride at last, standing alone by a set of double doors that he had locked for the occasion. There was a second ballroom behind those doors that was meant to create one enormous ballroom, but until he had a steadier flow of income to repair it, it was more or less condemned.

Did I embarrass you, Lydia?

He had thought he was merely setting a precedent for what she could expect from their marriage, but perhaps he had been a bit too strict.

Although, he would have been lying if he had said he had not thought about kissing her when they had been pronounced man and wife. The trouble was, the sort of kiss he had wanted to press to her plump, ripe lips at that moment was not fit for public viewing. Rather, it would have had them both in the scandal sheets by tomorrow morning for indecency.

"Why is she by herself?" William asked.

The last time he had spotted her, she had been chatting amiably with her sister. Indeed, despite Anthony's suggestion to the contrary, he had been keeping a reasonably close eye on his wife. The reason he had not stayed at her side was the same reason he had not kissed her in the church—she was too alluring, too intriguing, and better admired from afar.

Anthony shrugged. "Her sister was not feeling well, so she retired with her husband. The other duchesses also retired early, aside from the Duchess of Lymington, who is chaperoning her mother."

"Pardon?" William had never heard of such nonsense.

"The Dowager Countess of Creassey," was all Anthony said in reply.

It was all William needed to hear. Everyone knew about the infamous Dowager Countess of Creassey, Eliza.

Puffing out a sigh, William set down his drink. "Very well, I shall dance with my wife. I shall ask her, at least, though I do not anticipate a warm response."

He left his brother and made his way through the crowd, delighting in how the guests parted for him. But he did not see their faces nor really hear their words of congratulation, his attention fixed on his bride, his fiery feline.

He could not help thinking that it looked like the fire had left her as he drew nearer, and he wondered for just a moment if that really was his fault. A kiss on the hand would not have done any harm, nor would a civil, dull conversation about the weather or the watercress soup.

And gazing at her, he regretted not being more attentive. She looked sublime in a gown of gold embroidered, cream-colored silk with an overlay of gauzy white muslin. Her hair was no longer covered with a bonnet but curled and teased into a bun, studded with pearls and wildflowers. A few strawberry-blonde tendrils framed her beautiful face, her cheeks pink and radiant, her eyes so blue and so… desperately sad.

"We are dancing," he said, holding out his hand. "I am not asking."

She stared up at him in surprise. "Pardon?"

"You. Me. Immediately. I must have you on the dance floor." He went ahead and scooped her up into his arms, much to the delight and shock of the crowd.

She struggled like a rabbit in a net as she hissed, "Let go of me at once. Everyone is staring!"

"Let them." He flashed a winning smile to the guests. "My bride is shy, but you would all have us dance, would you not?"

A cheer of assent rang in the air, for there had been several hours of determined imbibing since the wedding and that moment. It had been William's only instruction to the staff before he had departed for the church earlier that day—when everyone returns for the festivities, ensure that no glass is left empty for more than a few minutes.

"Your Grace, stop it!" Lydia rasped, but she could not kick out without revealing her ankles, and she could not thump him without drawing suspicion. "Have you not humiliated me enough?"

He gazed down into her eyes. "Humiliated you? No, no, my sharp-clawed kitten. I intend to make you the envy of Society." He dipped his head slightly, his lips close to her ear. "When I am done with you, there will not be a household in the entirety of England that you will not immediately receive an invitation to visit. And friends? You will have them in abundance. Giddy creatures who long to know where they can find themselves a husband like yours."

He might have been a hopeless student, but if there was one thing he excelled at, it was dancing.

Elegantly, he set her down on the dance floor and swept a hand into the air in a gesture that demanded silence. The crowd obeyed until it was so powerfully quiet that he could have heard a single drop of condensation fall from a champagne glass.

"A waltz!" he called out to the orchestra.

A shiver of excitement rippled through the guests.

Meanwhile, Lydia stared at him in horror. "I cannot waltz, Your Grace."

"You can," he told her. "I am here to guide you through the steps until you do not know where your body ends and mine begins. We will be as one, moving as one."

He heard her anxious swallow. "I have… never waltzed before. It is… unseemly."

"We are married now," he replied, slipping his arm around her waist. "What is the worst they can do to us?"

She gulped again. "You ought to be worried about what might happen to your toes. I nearly broke a man's foot in a quadrille, the year of my debut."

"Then you have been dancing with weak men." He slid his fingers through hers, pulling her against him as close as he dared without making anyone else faint or call it obscenity. "You will never dance with a weak man again."

The orchestra took that moment to strike up a scintillating melody, perfect for the sort of waltz he had in mind. And before Lydia could catch her breath, he stepped forward, pushing his thigh against hers to nudge it back. Her leg half-buckled at the intimate touch, but his arm around her waist held her upright.

With a smile, he brought his other foot forward and gave her a second to understand the step before he swept his foot between hers and grazed her ankle, letting her know to step sideways. She did so with a shaky hesitation, her eyes wide and gleaming, her mouth parted as if she did not know whether to yell at him or kiss him. At least, that was what he chose to believe.

"And backward," he whispered, leading her.

She practically fell into him in her attempt to do so, body to body, only fabric between them as he gripped her tight. Her hand slipped down from his shoulder to his chest, curling a handful of his lapel into her fist, clinging to him.

"I have you, kitten," he murmured. "You will not fall."

"You are doing this to embarrass me more," she panted, her skin glistening with the effort of those first steps.

He shook his head. "Can you not feel it?"

"What? Perspiration? Humiliation? Utter contempt?" she muttered.

"Jealousy. Fascination. All aimed at you, kitten." He held her more tightly and lifted her off her feet, turning her in a slow circle. "Tonight, every lady in this room will wish they were you. We are such stuff as dreams are made on."

Her eyes widened. "You know The Tempest?"

"I would not be much of a duke if I did not know my Shakespeare," he replied, raising her higher this time as they whirled in a faster circle, again and again.

When he set her down once more, he whispered the steps before he made them. To his surprise, she was a quick study, soon moving with a grace and fluidity that belonged in a much grander ballroom than his.

Her gaze did not leave his, that sheen of perspiration transforming into a glow of vitality as she settled into the rhythm. Her hand relaxed on his lapel until her palm was pressed to his chest and her other hand gripped his with a confidence and an enthusiasm that he had not anticipated.

"Spin out, and spin back into me," he told her.

She nodded, and with their hands raised up, she did just that, whirling in an elegant spin. Her skirts twirled with her, a few locks of hair flying loose, a smile breaking across her pretty face like dawn rising over an endless night, making her shine in that rare way that no one could look away from.

He caught her as she spun back into his embrace, and for a fleeting half-second, they were gazing at one another, pressed close, their lips barely a breath away from one another's. His hand slid further down her back than it was supposed to, his fingertips touching the curve of her waist while his other hand gave hers a subtle squeeze.

Snapping out of it with a jolt, he put his hand into a more proper position, turned sideways against the middle of her back, and immediately moved into the next steps.

This is why I did not ask her to dance.

For too many years, he had indulged in his rakish ways—he had forgotten that this was not one of those situations. Back then, his dances with carefully chosen ladies were merely a prelude to what came after, but as he had told Lydia himself, what came after was not his priority, at present. Mending his estate and reputation was.

But she was enjoying herself, and she was enjoying the dance, and with that came certain sensations that pulsed through his veins. Indeed, there was nothing so titillating as seeing a woman enjoy herself. And seeing her flushed and glowing and breathing hard, it was difficult not to imagine those same sights and sounds in a very different, altogether more private setting.

By the time the orchestra slowed to a close, and the waltz came to an end, he had already decided he would not dance with her again. He could not risk his mind blurring any lines that might threaten what he hoped to build out of this marriage. He could not treat her the way a scoundrel would; he had to treat her the way a husband would. A distant husband of convenience with too many debts to pay off.

So, he bowed to her. "A delightful first dance, Duchess." He raised his gaze and smiled. "Best not sully it with a second."

"But… we are allowed more than two, now that we are married," she replied, her brow creasing in confusion.

He pressed a kiss to her gloved hand. "Indeed, but it is universally acknowledged that one should leave a rapt audience wanting more." His eyes closed for a moment, inhaling the sweet scent of verbena and lavender drifting from her wrist. "I shall return you to your party."

"My party has vanished," she told him, her confusion frosting over into cold indifference.

"Nonsense." He looped her arm through his and led her toward the spot where he had last seen Marina, the Duchess of Lymington.

Ten paces away, however, he witnessed something that made him want to pull Lydia back to the dance floor for a second waltz or perhaps a country dance. Anything to keep the other guests distracted and unaware of what was taking place between two older women who should have known better.

"I have stolen nothing from you! Are you quite mad?" the Dowager Duchess scoffed at Eliza. "It is obvious to anyone with eyes that Sir Matthew was flirting with me. I am at least a decade younger than you, for goodness' sake! It is… grotesque that you might even suggest that he was flirting with you."

Eliza looked ready to brawl, her eyes glassy with too much wine. "I think you mean, I have a decade more experience than you. There are things that I can do that you cannot even imagine!" She snorted. "And no one wants what everyone else has had, Mary."

"How dare you!" the Dowager Duchess shrieked.

"How dare I? You are the one who called me old." Eliza grinned. "I say, you are as young as the man in your bed."

Marina, shaking her head nearby, looked as if she had already tried everything she could to end the quarrel and had given up completely. And as she met William's appalled eyes, she just gave a shrug of defeat.

Lydia, meanwhile, blinked up at William. "Is that your mother?"

"Stay with your friend, the Duchess of Lymington," he growled in reply. "I am about to show you a dance step that I hope I shall never have to repeat with you."

He marched toward his mother and, without a word, grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. She pounded her fists into his back and kicked out her legs, but he paid no attention as he carried her out of the ballroom, thankfully before too many people had noticed.

But Lydia saw…

There was nothing he could do about that now, just as there was nothing he could do to erase that waltz from her head. Or his own.