Chapter 13

Anastasia shut her eyes for a moment, a small smile of rapture lifting the corners of her lips. She was waltzing, floating, flying. It felt for a moment as though they were whirling across the empty air, like two eagles in a dance so beautiful that it brought tears to her eyes.

"My lady?" A small, earnest whisper made her open her eyes again.

"Yes?" She gazed up at the duke, staring into that striking green stare.

"Is all well?" he whispered. His brow furrowed with a frown; his eyes filled with concern.

Anastasia felt her own brow crease and she almost missed a step. She recovered quickly and they whirled along the edge of the ballroom.

"Yes," she replied, feeling confused. "Yes. I am quite well."

She could hear the music shifting, moving into the last third of the dance and she looked up into his eyes, wishing to forget that the waltz would last at most a few minutes. She wanted to dance with him all night.

He had seemed as though he was about to speak as she stared up at him, but he stopped before he had said a word. His gaze met hers and held it, and she felt her heart thumping louder than the quartet, louder than the burr of conversation around them. All that existed was his face, his eyes, and the beating of her heart.

Heat flooded up into her face and through her body and she became aware of his closeness, of the warmth of his hand on hers. She drew a breath as the strangest longing flooded her. She ached to feel the warmth of his lips on hers. The scent of him drifted to her—a mix of leather and pomade and something else that she couldn't identify. Altogether, the mix of smells made her heart thud and somehow made that strange, urgent longing grow. She saw him lean fractionally forward and she drew a breath and held it, thinking for a second that he had felt the same and that he was going to kiss her.

Something flared in his gaze—if she had not known better, she would have thought it was fear. He straightened up and then they were slowing as the cadence changed and the waltz resolved into its closing section.

She slowed her steps, and her eyes remained locked on his, that strange longing still there. She drew a deep breath, but the sound of applause distracted her, and she realized that the other couples were politely congratulating each other on the dance and that the quartet was not playing anymore.

"Your Grace," she stammered, dropping a low curtsey.

"My lady." He bowed low and her heart raced as he looked up at her.

Her thoughts were blank, or they seemed to be coagulating in the strange feeling that was possessing her, the sweet, honeyed feeling that flooded her somehow slowing them on their way through her mind.

He cleared his throat. His eyes were shining, and Anastasia wondered, for a moment, if the same odd magic that was happening in her mind was happening in his as well.

"Might I offer you a glass of lemonade?" he said. His eyes were bright, but his voice sounded strange, as though his throat was half-blocked. He coughed again to clear it.

"Yes. Yes, please," she managed to say. Her heart leapt. He did not want simply to bow and curtsey and depart. He wished to go to the refreshments table together, at least.

"Well, then," he replied. "I shall escort you."

Anastasia frowned. His voice sounded formal—despite that strange, thickened quality as if his throat was part-blocked. He had been so friendly earlier, but there was a reservation in his speech that she found confusing. His gaze on her had been so bright, but now she detected a tinge of fear in the tightening at the corners of his eyes, the set of his mouth.

Perhaps he is tired, she told herself. The press of people and the blazing brightness did sometimes tire one out, particularly if one had already done something strenuous. And it was a particularly bright, well-lit ballroom.

He gestured towards one side of the hall, and she followed him as they wove their way across to it. The ballroom was not large, and the guest-list was slightly more generous than the space would allow, so the room was rather tightly packed.

They made their way towards a table and Anastasia looked around, blinking at the bright light of the chandeliers. She could see her parents conversing in one corner of the room and she felt her stomach twist a little guiltily. Her father would be angry if he saw her with the duke—but then he had not explicitly forbidden her from dancing with him, so she was not really doing anything wrong.

"Lemonade, my lady?" The duke sounded, again, a little formal as he spoke.

"Yes. Thank you," she replied.

He passed her a long glass filled with whitish, cloudy liquid that, when she sipped it, was a delicious mix of sourness and sweetness. She let out a sigh, the taste reviving her instantly.

The duke smiled.

"It's good, is it not?" His green eyes danced. Anastasia took a deep breath. He was so handsome when he smiled. The scars were just as noticeable as ever, but the strange thing was that she had stopped noticing them. She was aware of them—she could not deny that, as they were part of his face, part of the things that made him himself. And yet they were not disfiguring anymore. They were arresting, unusual, even interesting. They were one of his features and, as such, they were dear to her.

She froze in amazement. He was dear to her. More than dear. He was handsome and funny and kind and intelligent and simply seeing him made her heart soar.

I am falling in love, she realized dizzily.

She beamed up at him, the joy of that realization like wings that lifted her off the floor, that set her soul dancing a waltz. He gazed at her in absolute astonishment, and then a grin blossomed on his face.

"A fine evening, is it not?" he asked. His voice was light and joyful, and it made her grin wider.

"Yes. A wonderful evening," she sighed.

He gazed out over the ballroom, and she stared out too, watching the people talking, hearing the happy, joyful chatter and the sound of the quartet tuning in a discordant and yet beautiful shimmer of notes. The candles shone bright golden light down on the scene, and it felt as though her happiness was expanding, filtering through the room, as though her laughter and joy and that of the others was all melting together into a cacophony of happiness that mingled with the tuning violins.

His smile was as broad as her own and she grinned up at him, her gaze fixed on that lovely green stare.

He leaned forward again, and Anastasia held her breath. Unseemly and impossible it would be to steal a kiss, yet part of her wanted to—part of her ached so to feel his lips on hers that the rest of the ballroom melted away.

He tensed again and she frowned as he straightened up. It was the second time she could almost have sworn that he would kiss her, and yet at the last moment he drew away.

It's because it would be unseemly, she reminded herself. It would be a bad enough scandal, since we are unpromised and unwed, but so much worse given his reputation.

She swallowed hard. That was true, and yet part of her was confused, wondering if that really was the reason, or if there was any reason at all. Perhaps she had just imagined he was going to kiss her.

She stared up into his eyes and caught a look that made her heart race with longing. It was a smoldering gaze, one that called up those strange warm feelings in her because it was pure longing in itself.

He does feel it! Her heart soared with delight. It was not her wayward imagination. It was true.

Just as she thought it, the quartet started playing and the duke blinked in surprise.

"That's the dance my sister said would conclude the program for the evening." He sounded wistful. Anastasia felt her own heart twist with disappointment.

"There will be tea and coffee in the drawing room," she remembered, but then she laughed. "I suppose you'll be in the billiard room with the rest of the gentlemen."

He grinned. "I suppose I have to be," he reminded her. "Or the rest of the gentlemen will envy me so fully that they might come and toss me from the window."

"No!" Anastasia laughed. "That's horrid."

"But true," he said, his eyes twinkling.

Anastasia giggled, and her cheeks flushed with the thought that he meant that the rest of the men would not simply envy him the company of all the ladies, but her company in particular. He made her feel beautiful. That was not the reason that her heart leapt when she saw him—that was because of him alone—though it was perhaps the reason why a playful smile lifted the corner of her mouth when they talked.

"My sister always chooses a Polonaise as the concluding dance," he noted as the music, lively and fast, filled the room. "I don't know if it's as a challenge to the guests—anyone still sufficiently awake to perform such a lively dance ought to win a prize."

Anastasia laughed aloud. "What a terrific idea!"

He beamed. "It's rather unfortunate that the Polonaise is usually a short dance," he murmured, and his gaze was wistful again.

Anastasia nodded, but it was only as he bowed, to proceed with the other gentlemen to the billiards room, that she realized that he meant that, if the dance had been longer, they might have had longer to talk.

She gazed over her shoulder longingly as she saw him wander off in the direction of the door. A small smile lifted the corner of her lips, and the warmth of their discussion burned inside her like a candle, making her grin as she drifted towards the big door. Her mother's voice, from just beside her, made her turn abruptly, startled.

"Daughter! There you are. Shall we go up for a cup of tea? I long for one."

Anastasia smiled. Her mother's eyes were sparkling. Usually, her mother looked either weary or tense—especially when Father was nearby. It was unusual to see such joy on her face and her own heart soared with delight. She glanced around and was surprised to see two women who she did not immediately recognize with Mama. She frowned, then smiled in happy amazement.

It was the Dowager Duchess of Willowick, and the lady she had been accompanying when they met in London.

"Anastasia, dear," Mama murmured as they stepped into the entrance-way. "I am pleased to introduce you to the Duchess of Willowick."

"I have met your dear daughter before," her Grace murmured, making Mama frown.

"You have?" She looked at Anastasia, who smiled and nodded.

"Yes. We have already met briefly."

"You did?" Mama gazed at Anastasia and then turned to the duchess, whose green eyes lit with warmth.

"Indeed. I was very pleased to meet Lady Anastasia." She smiled with genuine happiness. Anastasia drew a breath. While she would have sworn that her own mother was the most beautiful older woman in London, the duchess—with her strong features and stunning eyes—was breathtaking. Her green eyes were lined at the edges, her brown hair graying at the temples, but the vitality and warmth that poured from her were engaging and combined with her striking looks made her a real beauty. "This is my sister-in-law, the dowager Viscountess of Camberwell," she added, indicating the woman on her left with the dark hair and the slightly tense, pretty face.

"Good evening," Anastasia murmured, dropping a curtsey to the lady who the duke had introduced as his aunt.

"Good evening, Lady Anastasia."

Anastasia's mother smiled at her, as if sensing that she was utterly bewildered.

"Come and join us for a cup of tea, dear," she said gently. "And then I think I would like to go home and rest."

"Yes," Anastasia murmured. "Yes. That sounds pleasant." She gazed with a mixture of astonishment and perplexity at the three elder ladies. Her father had already given Lord Ridley permission to court her. Why was her mother being so friendly to the duchess and her sister-in-law, when they had explicitly been told to avoid all contact with the duke? It made her happy to see her mother so accepting of the duke's family, but it bewildered her too.

With her head swimming in confusion, she followed the three older ladies up the stairs to the drawing room.

"Would you like some sugar?" Lady Camberwell asked, passing Anastasia the sugar-bowl and tongs. Anastasia smiled.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"What a lovely ball," Mama said contentedly as she stirred her tea. "Your daughter has arranged a most delightful evening for us."

"She is a most proficient organizer," the duchess replied, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I took great pleasure in having her oversee my own household."

Anastasia chuckled. Despite the duchess' regal appearance, she could actually imagine her delegating much of the organizing to her industrious young daughter.

"May I say that you danced very beautifully?" the duchess said to Anastasia. She felt her cheeks redden.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she murmured, looking at the table with shyness.

"Anastasia is a fine dancer," Mama said warmly. "She has always enjoyed it greatly."

"How grand," Lady Camberwell said with a smile.

"I was never as fond of a dance," the duchess said, grinning. "I much preferred soirees."

"But Viola! You danced so much," Lady Camberwell objected, her eyes round and wide.

"I didn't have much choice," the duchess said with a laugh.

"Quite so!" Lady Camberwell agreed, chuckling. "At least five men would be queuing before each dance."

The duchess just smiled. "That was long ago," she murmured.

"Youth is not beauty," Mama noted, and the duchess beamed.

"No. Beauty is a quality unto itself. Yet, at times, they do coincide. Like your daughter, yonder." She glanced over at Anastasia, who felt a warm flush rise to her cheeks once more.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered.

Mama smiled at the duchess. "I heard of you. You had your debut three years before me. Everyone was gossiping about the lovely Lady Viola, daughter of the Earl of Blackford."

The duchess smiled. "That is kind," she murmured. "I was merely fortunate to withdraw from society once more with such expedience."

"Only because you wed Alexander the same year."

"Yes." The duchess smiled. "That is true. I was very lucky. My dear, dear, Alexander." She sounded sad and Anastasia felt her heart tighten in sympathy. She glanced over at her mother, who laid a protective hand over the duchess' own.

"You must miss him terribly," she murmured.

The duchess swallowed and Anastasia blinked, seeing tears in the older woman's eyes.

"Yes. Yes, I do miss him," she said softly. "I miss him every day. But I see him in my dear boy. My dear, dear boy." She stopped and Anastasia wanted to cry, too, seeing the mix of love and sorrow in her gaze.

"Is he very like?" her mother wanted to know.

"He is the image of Alexander. It is my greatest comfort," the duke's mother murmured. "He is the dearest thing in the world to me. His happiness matters the most to me of all things."

"I understand," Mama said gently.

Anastasia blinked in surprise. She knew her mother loved her—she had never doubted it. But seeing the duchess speak of her son, she realized just how deep that love was. She gazed at her mother in renewed appreciation.

"I love my son," the duchess said with emotion. "He and Alexander were my whole world."

"I'm so sorry for your grief," Mama said sincerely.

Anastasia nodded in silent agreement. She gazed at the duchess. This was something else that was new to her—the undeniable love that she could see in the duchess' eyes when she spoke of the former duke. Her own mother looked mostly fearful when she spoke of Papa. And Papa seemed to have no affection for any of his own family.

I can have a love like the one I feel for the Duke of Willowick, she thought with surprise. It is possible. It is real and permissible and safe.

When she looked at the duchess' face, at those lines that were from grief but were also from pride and joy; she knew that a life like that was the one she wanted to live. She wanted to throw herself headlong into the love that she felt, to let it carry her like a river and wash her onto the banks of wherever it led. That beautiful feeling like warm honey, like fire, like the stars turning—it was real, and true, and allowed.

She smiled at the duchess, wishing she could tell her how much freedom she had given her just by showing the love that burned within her.

The duchess smiled back.

They sat and talked—lively, amusing conversation about London and the more bizarre aspects of high fashion—and then the clock chimed. Mama gazed around the room.

"I suppose we ought to take our leave," she murmured to the duchess and her sister-in-law, who were also both readying to stand up.

"I suppose," the duchess murmured, stifling a yawn with an elegant hand. "It is long past midnight."

Anastasia stood and greeted the women and walked with her mother to the door. It had been a beautiful evening and images of the dance, and of the duke and those beautiful eyes, ran through her mind as she clambered sleepily into the coach. Her father shot her a look and Anastasia shuddered, knowing that he had seen her dance with the duke.

He must have been tired, because he said nothing, only nodded briefly as they clambered in. Nobody talked much and she slipped into a drowsy slumber as the coach rattled and jolted along, her lips lifting in a smile at thoughts of the duke. Love like that was allowed and welcome and wonderful and she knew that now. She could not wait to see him again soon—if only her father might allow it.