Chapter 3

The ball that Emmaline"s father had made mention of was the very first of the Season—Emmaline"s very first Season—which for many young women was a time of excitement and joy.

All Emmaline felt as she prepared for the evening in her room, was nerves. They churned in her stomach until she felt sick right to the back of her throat. It was only the knowledge that Jane would be at her side, on her first Season out in society too, that gave her any sense of relief at all.

"How do I look?" Jane asked, standing before the full-length mirror. Twisting this way and that in her peach gown, she was stunning as ever. With pale blonde hair much like Jane's mother and sisters, she was beautiful and fair. Emmaline wouldn"t be surprised if she turned out to be the belle of the ball just as Violet, her sister, had been at her debut.

"You look just like Violet," Emmaline said, meaning it as a compliment but it only made Jane"s face wrinkle in disgust.

"That is the last thing anyone should wish to look like!" Jane protested, turning to face Emmaline with her hands tightened to fists at her sides. "Do you think I should change? The last thing I wish to look like is a sour-faced old trout!"

Emmaline bit back laughter and rose from the edge of the bed where she sat to allow the maid to help her on with her shoes. The blasted things were mighty uncomfortable, and they pinched her toes terribly, but as her stepmother assured her, they were the height of fashion and so they had to be worn.

Every woman must follow society"s standards, fashions and trends, and the heavens help them if they didn"t. Emmaline had long since learned not to argue on such matters no matter how uncomfortable. There were other things to fight for, like her right to do the business that her father had instilled within her from an early age.

Crossing the room, she said, "Violet is only a year our senior and she is your blood sister. It is only right you should look like her."

She stopped before Jane and laid her hands upon her sister"s shoulders. They might only have been sisters by marriage but to Emmaline, Jane was the closest thing she truly had to a sister. They had shared a room for as long as she could remember and with only eight months between them, they had always been close.

"She is still a sour-faced trout even if she is not old!" Jane insisted, wrinkling her nose again. "Do not compare me to her Emm, for I shall never live up to it."

Emmaline cupped her sister"s face in her hands and sighed, "I only meant that you look beautiful, my darling little sister, and you shall surely be the belle of the bell."

"Not if you steal away the attention," Jane insisted. She pulled Emmaline's hands from her face and held them out so she could look Emmaline up and down. "The purple of your gown does wonders to bring out your eyes!"

Emmaline blushed at that. She often received compliments on just how green her eyes were, especially when she wore purple which just so happened to be her favorite color.

"I could never compare to you, darling Jane," Emmaline insisted. She lifted Jane"s hands to hers and kissed them. "Besides, with Violet already wed, everybody shall be looking to you to make the next match."

"And you!" Jane insisted, nudging her playfully with her ankle before she turned back to regard herself in the mirror once more. "You are far too smart not to have some gentleman or nobleman snap you up at the first chance he gets. Just look at you!"

Jane pulled Emmaline into the view of the mirror beside her and twisted one of Emmaline"s curls around her finger before letting it drop once more to frame her face.

"I fear the men of the ton are not all that interested in brains," Emmaline pointed out grimly. She had seen the hounds at the door the day Violet first stepped out into society. Many of them had been fortune-hunting nobodies or second sons looking to make an advantageous marriage with the stepdaughter of an earl.

As the true-born daughter of one, Emmaline imagined her prospects might be slightly higher, but she had met enough gentlemen already, and heard enough of Violet"s whisperings and gossip a year earlier to know what men really looked for in a woman. They wanted beautiful trophies on their arms and in their beds, women they could use to gain the envy of all other men. Brains meant very little compared to breeding, beauty and behavior where a wife was concerned.

"I shan't imagine there are many men who would be willing to take a woman to wife who has a better head for business than he," Emmaline said, mimicking her stepmother who had so often said such things that Emmaline could recite entire speeches on the matter.

"Oh, don"t listen to Mama!" Jane insisted, waving the matter away. "Any man shall be lucky to have you and if they cannot see past their own foolishness, then they are not the one for you anyway!"

Emmaline smiled in agreement though deep down she wasn"t quite so certain. To hear her stepmother talk in private, she was practically unmarriageable thanks to her father"s insistence on putting a clever head upon her shoulders. And to be looking for love? That might well be just as foolish, considering one simple question: who could love a woman whose head for business outmatched even most gentlemen's'?

Having been born a woman had only made Emmaline more determined to learn all there was, spending hours reading by candlelight while the rest of the household slept, or questioning her father whenever he was in a mood to answer.

Perhaps she had set herself up for failure, but one thing she had always been determined of… if she were to fall in love, she wished for that person to love her back for who she was, not someone that she pretended to be, as she so often saw the other young ladies of the ton do.

Many of them were quite as dim as they were made out to be but a number of them, Jane included, she had seen a spark of intelligence in. And she feared that spark might be extinguished in any number of them before the Season was over.

She had seen how the light had been dimmed already in Violet and many of her friends once wed. And the thought of it terrified Emmaline.

She thought, perhaps, she might prefer to be a lone spinster, content to find a way to live through business if she must, though she was certain nobody would do business with her without a wealthy male patron. Without her father, a husband would be needed, and though she hated to think of a world without her father in it, she was no fool to believe he would live forever. He had reminded her so himself many times during their lectures together.

"Emmaline, are you quite well?" Jane asked and Emmaline realized she had been staring at herself in the mirror, considering her options or lack thereof. Jane only ever used her full name when something was the matter.

Blinking heavily, Emmaline cleared her throat and said, "Yes, though I wonder, Jane, would you promise me one thing before we begin this horrid charade?"

Jane paled a little. "I"m quite certain it won"t be that bad, Emm."

Emmaline smiled sadly at her sister and took hold of both her hands again. Squeezing, she held her hands to her chest and said, "Promise me, Jane, promise me that no matter what this Season brings we shall always look after one another, even if one of us shall be married by the end of it."

"Especially if one of us shall be married by the end of it!" Jane corrected her, squeezing her hands in return. "Always, Emmaline. You need not even ask!"

Emmaline felt a hint better as she and her stepsister embraced, the promise committed between them.

"Mama told me not to talk about it, but I overheard her and Violet talking about how The Duke of Westmarch will be in attendance this evening."

Emmaline cringed at the mention of the duke, not because she knew him but because she sympathized with him. Just as those closest to her always discussed how brainy she was, they discussed how horribly tragic the Duke's life had been—and how horrendously disfigured he was.

"I am sure there will be many nobles in attendance," Emmaline pointed out. It was, after all, the first ball of the Season and Lady Beaufort was well known for her soirees.

"Yes, but none so lacking in choice than Lord Westmarch," Jane said. "They say he means to take a wife this year but that he shall have trouble finding one, what with his scars and all."

"We all have scars, Jane," Emmaline snapped back at her sister, most disgusted that Jane should talk in such a manner when she was the sweetest of their entire family. "You have spent far too much time with Mama and Violet."

She shook her head, removing her hands from Jane"s to pick up her gloves from where the maid had laid them out on the vanity table beside the mirror.

"A scar on your elbow from falling off the tree swing in the back yard is hardly the same as the duke"s burns," Jane protested, crossing her arms over her chest. "And I resent that you should say such a horrid thing, Emmaline!"

"Perhaps, then, you ought not to be so horrid!" Emmaline said, cringing as she pulled on her gloves.

"They don"t call him the scarred duke for nothing, Emmaline! Mama says nobody in their right mind would have him even if he is the most eligible bachelor in London… on paper."

Emmaline's stomach twisted. She couldn't help but feel as if she had lost her sweet sister to the sickness that was society.

"How can anyone speak to that when society has not laid eyes upon the duke in heaven knows how long?" Emmaline demanded. In all the talk of him, she had never heard an eyewitness account, only whispering that never quite seemed to add up.

One thing was certain: though she had no interest in the duke with regard to marriage—as she would not consider anyone for marriage without first having laid eyes upon them and having gotten to know them—she did have an interest in learning the truth. It was a downfall of hers, always and forever to be intrigued by mystery and with a determination to get to the bottom of it.

There were many rumors on the Duke of Westmarch: that he had been in a carriage accident; that he had fallen from his horse and been horribly disfigured; that a candle had been knocked from his nightstand and that his entire house had almost been burned to the ground. But she did not have any true connection to the duke, so she took everything she heard with a pinch of salt. One thing was sure, she would be pleased to lay eyes upon the man if only to dispel the rumors she had overheard over the years.

"Every duke has family, Emmaline, and friends," Jane countered, furrowing her pale blonde brow. "Besides, since his inheriting the dukedom, he has far less chance to hide as he once did."

Emmaline thought it an odd image. To imagine a mighty duke hiding from anything was an odd thing indeed. The Duke of Westmarch might well be the most interesting member of the ton and not a one of them would realize it for the simple fact they could not see past his scars.

Though she had no real scars of her own, Emmaline empathized with the man; all they ever saw in her was the daughter of a widower, a poor young girl whose mother had perished during her childhood when a girl so needed a mother. That was her scar to bear, and she bore it as bravely as she was able.

Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath and attempted to change the subject. "Sebastian and Victor shall be there this evening also. We must do our best to keep an eye on them and ensure they don"t dance with anyone Mama and Papa might deem unfit."

Jane scowled at her as if she knew exactly what she was trying to do. "Seb and Vic can take care of themselves. It"s us I worry about. They have been to a hundred balls by now and not a wedding bell amongst them. The fate of the family lies with us!"

Emmaline flinched. No, dear little sister, it lies with me.

Though she knew well it did not lie with her in the way Jane assumed.

It mattered not who they intended to marry if their father had no dowry to offer. No duke would even sniff in their direction were she to bring shame upon their household in the form of a fruitless investment.

And with fewer reports coming, and those that did were further apart, Emmaline couldn"t help but fear the worst.

She had promised her father to put it from her mind and for the most part that day, she had, but now as she prepared to leave for the ball with only a glove button to do up, she couldn"t stop the thoughts from coming.

What good is searching for a husband when tomorrow we might wake up penniless?

The Beaufort Ball, just like any other ball, was just as one would expect. Emmaline was bombarded with people making her acquaintance and young gentlemen asking her to dance.

Ever the good daughter and always aiming to offer herself to society at the highest standard—as her parents expected of her—she accepted the dances willingly. It would not be at all appropriate for her to decline even a single offer without good reason.

And though she loved to dance, as she loved all things movement and fun and freedom, she did not like every dance partner that crossed her path.

As they so often liked to do, each of her brothers took her for a turn about the dancefloor first, she and Jane sharing the two of them in order to get a feel for their surroundings.

And then came the hunt. From the second the younger of her two brothers released her, Emmaline felt like prey. Her dance card was quickly filled with names, and she felt as though she might never be free again.

By the time the third dance had finished, she detested the idea of a fourth thanks to the youngest Beaufort son having stomped on her toes so many times she thought she might not have a single one that wasn"t sore.

Then the elder Beaufort son took his turn, parading her about the floor as if he wished to show off his prowess on the dance floor to everyone who might look. He had always been a bit of a dandy and Emmaline found it quite laughable.

Dance number five made her wish she had never come at all. As Mr. Denstone, the second son of Viscount Denstone, began by asking her if she liked needlework and flower arranging, before he moved onto such topics as how many children did she hope to have and was she amenable to living with her husband"s family, and did she like the name Robert for a boy or Roberta for a girl?

Mr. Denstone had never been very bright and though he was quite likable, Emmaline disliked him greatly that night.

By the time she managed to find a quiet moment at the edge of the dance floor, half-hidden behind a freestanding marble flowerpot, she was quite exhausted.

She would have been content to remain by herself for the rest of the evening with only shadows for friends if it were not for Jane joining her. And her sister looked almost as disheveled as she felt.

"How was your dance with Mr. Penwick?" Emmaline asked when Jane slipped into the shadows behind her.

"About as well as yours with Mr. Denstone, I suspect," Jane sighed. "If these are the men on offer to wed this year, I fear we shall still be on the marriage mart next year."

Emmaline chuckled. So far, the offerings had been poor indeed, but she was determined to remain hopeful, even if only for duty"s sake, "The evening is not over yet and if I know Lady Beaufort she has arranged twice the number of dances we ordinarily partake in."

"That woman would have us all dance until dawn and wed to partners by breakfast if she had her way," Jane pointed out and Emmaline couldn't stop from laughing. She could imagine it all too easily.

"We had best be sure to pick the perfect suitor before dawn then, hadn't we?" Emmaline suggested playfully, turning her eye back to the room. Noting her stepmother close by, she forced herself a little further into the light.

If she or Jane were caught hiding from prospective suitors, they would both be in trouble.

If something happened with the India shipment, their last hope might well be marriage. And though the idea of it frightened Emmaline, she had always been determined to do what was best for her family.

"Who is on your dance card next?" Emmaline asked her sister, glancing over the room in an attempt to pinpoint Lord Beaton whose name was written in her next slot.

Jane glanced at her card. "Lord Ryeworth, it appears. At least his conversation is usually entertaining."

Emmaline wished she could say the same for Lord Beaton. "Can we swap cards?" she jested but the second Jane looked at Emmaline's card, she wrinkled her nose.

"Perhaps you could feign a headache?" she suggested, her eyes filled with sympathy.

Emmaline shook her head. "Mama would most definitely have something to say about that were she to find out, and then I truly would have a headache."

Jane bit her lip and covered her laughter with her fan. When she dropped it again, she folded it and pointed across the room, "It appears we are in luck. I do believe the musicians are taking a welcome break."

Emmaline followed her sister's fan to the musicians who were set up on a balcony at the far end of the ballroom. It appeared to her that they were actually having some kind of technical difficulty with one of the instruments, a string snap or some other such trouble.

And though it seemed many in the ballroom were quite disappointed with the fact, Emmaline breathed a sigh of relief. Another minute or two to rest her sore toes was most welcome.

Her relief was short lived as her eyes traveled from the balcony to the group of guests waiting below. It was an ordinary sight to see, guests mingling, talking between dances. And yet, one guest in particular caught Emmaline"s eye like none ever had before.

Though she could only see the profile of his face, she thought he was perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen.

With a shock of jet-black hair and one perfectly shaped brow to match, he was striking enough compared to the many fair-haired, chestnut-headed, and brunette men and women standing all about him. In fact, the man he appeared to be talking to was so blonde that they were quite literally opposites.

And no matter how she tried, Emmaline couldn"t pull her gaze from the dark-haired gentleman. The profile of his face was all sharp, masculine features. His strong jawline was peppered with dark stubble, as though he had been freshly shaven when he had prepared for the ball, but it had already begun to grow back.

And as Emmaline watched him talking to the blonde-haired gentleman, her heart stopped. He had turned his face ever so slightly, just enough for one eye to catch hers.

And by heavens, that eye, it was so dark. Even all the way across the room it was so dark that his gaze was black, mysterious, boring into her in a way that she could not avert her gaze.

Even if she had been able to, she did not want to. Though she felt uncomfortable, it was a thrilling sensation, not at all like the discomfort she had experienced when dancing with the Beaufort sons.

"Emmaline? Emma!" Jane hissed in her ear, but it was only when her sister gripped her forearm that Emmaline very nearly jumped out of her skin.

Blinking out of fright, she finally managed to pull her gaze away long enough to ask, "Jane, who is that man?"

"Which?" Jane asked, following Emmaline"s inclined head.

When Emmaline looked back, she was disappointed to note that the gentleman was no longer looking her way.

Whatever connection had befallen them had been severed the moment her sister touched her. The fact made her stomach twist painfully.

Still, it gave her the opportunity she needed to examine the gentleman more closely.

He was luxuriously, if plainly, dressed as if he knew his worth and wealth yet did not wish to flaunt it as so many among the ton so often did. His black leather boots were polished so finely they shone even at a distance, and Emmaline suspected if she drew closer, she would be able to see her reflection in the toes of them. He was dressed in dark navy with paler blue accents upon his pocket square and cravat and his long, curling hair had been tied at the nape of his neck by a piece of blue dyed leather.

The golden flawlessness of his skin caused him to glow in the light of the chandeliers and though she felt Jane watching her, she could not look away from him.

She was like a moth to a flame. Absolutely foolish of her, she knew, the moment Jane told her who the gentleman was.

"Haven"t you been introduced yet?" Jane asked, sounding quite shocked. "That is the duke!"

Emmaline"s heart stopped. "The duke?" she asked. There was more than one duke in attendance that evening though none she had met had been quite so young and bold looking as he.

"The duke," Jane said, nudging Emmaline in the ribs with her elbow. "Lord Alexander Black, the Duke of Westmarch. The Scarred Duke."

Emmaline sucked in a deep breath. He didn"t look at all scarred to her. In fact, he didn"t look at all how she had picked the reclusive scarred duke that was so often the talk of gossip mongers and bored wives.

The man she pictured whenever she heard talk of him was balding, scarred and hunchbacked. He was a grim, gruesome, grotesque beast with a foul temper and a mouth that could breathe fire.

Clearly, she had read far too many fantasy books over the years. Lord Westmarch was so beautiful she could only picture him as the Prince of any fairytale.

As if he felt her watching him, the prince—no, the duke—turned his attention on her again. Still, she only saw the one side of his face as he did not entirely turn from the gentleman he had been talking to. Though their conversation continued, it appeared his attention was entirely upon her.

And again, Emmaline could not look away.

She was caught once more by those wonderful, dark and mysterious eyes, wondering what it might be like to look in them up close. Were they truly as dark as they appeared?

She was so enamored by him that she barely heard Jane explaining, "The gentleman with him is Lord Sean Seymour. The son of Viscount Seymour."

Emmaline nodded her head but still couldn't blink. A smile played upon the corner of the duke"s lips but just as quickly as it began, it was gone.

He blinked and looked away, leaving Emmaline disappointed once more.

Those eyes were intoxicating.

"Emmaline, are you quite alright?" Jane asked, squeezing Emmaline"s forearm. Even through their gloves, Emmaline could sense her sister"s concern.

Clearing her throat, Emmaline blinked several times, feeling as if her mind were on the verge of being melted.

"I… umm… I do believe I might actually be coming down with a headache, after all," she admitted, clutching her head with her free hand and wafting her fan at her face with the other.

"You would say that now that the musicians have begun again," Jane laughed, and Emmaline"s chest tightened. She hadn"t even noticed the music kicking in again.

"Don"t look now. Here comes Lord Beaton," Jane warned even as she picked up Emmaline's dance card and looked at the name under the ones that had been scratched out. "Poor you."

"Poor you," Emmaline countered when she noticed Lord Ryeworth making his way toward them also.

"I do believe I got off lightly compared to you," Jane said quietly, winking before she turned to meet Lord Ryeworth and accept his dance.

Emmaline"s stomach twisted. She feared her sister was right.

"Lady Moreau, might you permit me to have this dance?" Lord Beaton asked, dipping down low as he offered her his hand.

"Of course, my lord," Emmaline said, feeling the eyes of her stepmother on her from across the room.

Lord Beaton, though only three years her senior, was already balding and there was a rather musty smell about him no matter how he had tried to cover it with sweet smelling perfumes.

Yet, Emmaline was forced to grit her teeth and bear it for it would be entirely unacceptable for her to decline a dance, as she had to remind herself over and over again.

Though, it appeared, there was nothing to stop somebody from rescuing her.

The dance had barely begun, only having taken a quarter of a turn around the floor before somebody stepped up beside them and said, "Lord Beaton, forgive me but I fear I must cut in, if I may?"

The voice was not one that Emmaline recognized though something about it spoke directly to her heart. It fluttered uncontrollably as she turned to find Lord Westmarch holding out his hand.

When she glanced anxiously at Lord Beaton to see his reaction, she was surprised to find his face had grown pale and his eyes round as that of a doe facing down the barrel of a shotgun.

"I… umm… Your Grace, of course!" Lord Beaton exclaimed, practically tripping over himself to offer up Emmaline's hand.

It was quite clear that she had no say in the matter and quite frankly, she was intrigued to learn what was so frightening about the man.

"Your Grace," she said, offering the man a small curtsy as he replaced Lord Beaton.

"My Lady," he responded, dipping his head before he stepped directly in front of her. For the first time Emmaline saw the reason why they called him The Scarred Duke.

The one side of his face was a patchwork of silver burn scars that decorated right down to his cravat, and Emmaline suspected disappeared further beneath his blue shirt.

The scars were mesmerizing, intriguing, painfully beautiful. They told a story that she so desperately wished to know she almost burst right out and asked how he had come by them. Her fingertips itched to trace every fine line, feeling the story unfold beneath her hand.

"Has anyone ever told you, My Lady, that it is quite rude to stare?" the duke asked, holding her hand and pulling her close to him with his other hand at the small of her back.

"And has anybody ever told you it is rude to frighten someone out of their wits and steal a dance for no good reason?" Emmaline responded bravely.

The healthy side of the duke"s face twitched upwards in a smile and again she was fascinated by his wounds and the way that side of his face barely moved.

Somehow the scars made him all the more handsome. They made him real. They made him touchable, not at all like the grand high and mighty dukes she was used to.

"You are a feisty young lady, aren"t you?" the duke asked.

Emmaline bit the inside of her lip, struggling to concentrate for the heat she felt where his hands touched her was quite remarkable.

She was a fool. She never should have spoken so openly and yet, it appeared to have amused the duke, and so she decided it best to merely be honest. "I only voice what I have witnessed, Your Grace. And I fear you may have caused Lord Beaton to mess his breeches if he had remained a second longer under your scrutinizing gaze."

"Scrutinizing, whatever could I have been scrutinizing him for?" the duke asked, his tone incredulous. As they talked, the rest of the world around them seemed to melt away.

"I suspect that is between you and he, Your Grace," Emmaline said, her head held high even though she feared to look him in the eye. She could not help herself.

They truly were as dark as they had appeared across the ballroom. A deep, dark, charcoal gray, with a hint of brown, that was so close to black it may as well have been the color of a stormy sky.

In fact, if not for the whites of his eyes, he might have looked as if there were two shining lumps of obsidian set in his skull. Perhaps that was why Lord Beaton had looked as if he were looking upon a monster. And yet, somehow, Emmaline couldn"t quite see it.

The duke was even more intriguingly handsome up close.

"That it is, My Lady," he said, and his hand squeezed hers. Through the material of their gloves she felt a shock of warmth and found herself wishing she could remove the material entirely. What must it have been like to touch his bare palm with hers?

The thought made her blush.

"My Lady, I do believe you are blushing," the duke whispered, leaning forward to say the words into her ear.

He was so close she felt his breath brushing her earlobe, making a strand of her hair tickle her cheek.

"There are a lot of bodies in here," Emmaline pointed out. "It is quite warm."

"Perhaps after this dance you might take some air?" the duke suggested, and Emmaline"s heart fluttered. Though he hadn"t invited her to do so with him, she couldn"t help but imagine it. What it must have been like to be alone with such a man.

"Tell me, Lord Westmarch," she said, trying her utmost to keep her composure, or at least what remained of it. "How are you liking the ball so far?"

"Until now, I admit, I was finding it quite unamusing."

"And now?" Emmaline asked, breathlessly.

The way the duke met her gaze stole all of her attention and she almost lost herself in his eyes again.

"Now, I find it far more amusing," the duke said, expertly guiding her around the floor in a way that made her feel light as air. He was strong, powerful, almost primitively predatory in how his voice growled out through his teeth. It set Emmaline's insides alight in an entirely new experience. He continued, still meeting her gaze, "Though I admit I am at a loss. It appears you know very well who I am, but I have no idea as to your identity."

"Then how is it, Your Grace, that you come to call me, My Lady?" Emmaline said, chuckling a little as she could not quite bite back her amusement.

The duke raised the brow on the unscarred side of his face and glanced up and down at her. "You look like a lady."

Emmaline scoffed at that. It was a gut reaction that left her even more embarrassed. "Oh, Your Grace, forgive me but I do not believe anyone has ever said such a thing about me."

For a second, she feared she might have offended him but then his scowl turned to a look of intrigue, "Why ever not?"

"Just ask my stepmother and I am quite certain she would give you one hundred reasons as to why I am no lady," Emmaline said, her throat constricting at the fact that she was speaking so freely. She wasn"t sure she had ever spoken so out of turn before. And yet, she couldn"t seem to stop the words spilling from her lips.

"And who is your stepmother?" the duke asked. He was fishing for information now, Emmaline was certain of it, and yet she couldn"t help but give it up.

"The Countess of Monrith, Your Grace," Emmaline said, and she noticed the spark that flashed through his dark eyes.

"Then you are Lord Monrith's daughter?" he asked, and Emmaline"s chest tightened.

"You know my father?" she gulped. This could either go one of two ways. Her father was an earl and a very wealthy businessman besides. He had a great many friends but among them there were a number of men who disliked him for various reasons, business he had not chosen to enter into or people he chose not to associate with due to their unbecoming choices.

Every great man had his enemies. Emmaline prayed this man was not one of them.

"We are acquainted, yes," the duke said, "Though I had no idea his daughter was quite so comely. He has kept you secret, it appears, My Lady."

Emmaline blushed and laughed. It was all she could do not to melt entirely. His flattery was most certainly working in a way no other man's had before.

"I do not believe so, Your Grace," Emmaline protested. "His wife has me paraded like all the other young women of society at every opportunity."

Again, the duke looked quizzical. "And you do not like being paraded?"

"Would you?" Emmaline said, perhaps a little snappily. The duke flinched and Emmaline"s guilt was instant. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I spoke out of turn."

The gloriously handsome man shook his head. "No, you are quite right. I would not, though I fear it is a responsibility we both must endure this Season."

"You are a duke," Emmaline pointed out, "I suspect nobody could force you to endure anything."

"Then you would be quite wrong, My Lady."

He spoke through gritted teeth, that much was clear, and again Emmaline feared she had offended him.

She was about to request his forgiveness when he drew their dance to an end. It was only then the rest of the room came swimming back into focus. The music had stopped, and the musicians were preparing for the next dance. Other dancers were already making their way off the floor.

The duke did not release her immediately. Instead, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "It appears, My Lady, that everybody is staring at us. Our time must unfortunately come to an end."

Emmaline"s stomach filled with butterflies as the duke laid her hand on his forearm and guided her to the edge of the dancefloor.

He was right. Nearly every eye in the room was on them and by the time they reached the edge of the floor, Emmaline could scarcely breathe.

She was only held up by the duke"s strong arm beneath her hand but when he stepped back, offering a bow, she felt as if she had been set adrift in a vast sea with no hope of rescue.

"Good evening, My Lady," the duke said, and she was sure his teeth were still clenched. "Perhaps we shall meet again."

And then, just like that, he was gone into the crowd. He was much taller than many of the other guests and for a while she was able to keep her eye upon him until she saw him slip out into the hallway where a servant had opened the door for him.

"Emmaline, whatever was that all about?" Jane exclaimed as she appeared beside her.

Feeling as if she might drift away, Emmaline grabbed for her sister"s arm and clutched on for dear life. "I have absolutely no idea."

She feared her heart would never calm again. Still, she felt the duke"s touch. The small of her back, the palm of her hand, where he had stroked the backs of her fingers with his own as they"d danced.

It was a sensation she wished to commit to memory. Even if she never saw the duke again, she would always have that night, and the way he had made her feel.