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Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“ T hey do not exist. These people do not exist,” Lionel said as the music began, and he stepped forward to press his palm to Amelia’s, trying to ignore the pleasant feeling of her silken glove against his rough skin.

Her fear was evident, radiating off her in tremulous waves, and all he could do was attempt to put her at ease. It had been a mistake to bring her here. It had been a mistake to throw her into such public scrutiny, and it had been a mistake for him to introduce her to friends and acquaintances—especially to Duncan Lock, who could charm just about any woman.

I did say she could do as she pleased once our honeymoon was over… The stark reminder left a sour taste in Lionel’s mouth, as he and Amelia turned slow circles around each other, the movement almost predatory in manner, like two animals sizing each other up. Although, Amelia was not looking at him, her chin having fallen to its habitual spot on her chest.

“Look at me,” he said firmly.

She lifted her gaze in a hurry, as if startled by the command. “Pardon?”

“You must keep looking at me. A dance is no good if all you do is stare at your feet,” he told her, not unkindly. “Ignore everyone else. Pretend they are not here.”

Amelia gave a small nod, her blue eyes fixed on his.

A few moments later, as she moved around him in a horseshoe and came back to stand in front of him, he could have sworn he saw her relax a little.

“Is the Duke a friend of yours?” she asked, nerves lingering in her voice.

“He is,” Lionel replied, a strange sensation bristling in his chest.

“Have you known him for a long time?”

“Not so long,” he said. “We were acquainted at university, but I have only known him well for the past two years.”

Why is she so interested in Duncan?

Amelia smiled shyly. “Is he always so very confident?”

“He is a Duke—of course he is confident,” Lionel replied, his tone a note curter than he had intended. “Arrogant, some might say.”

“You do not speak of him as if he is a friend to you,” she pointed out.

In truth, Lionel did not know why the mention of his friend was, all of a sudden, making him so uncomfortable. He adored Duncan. Indeed, Duncan had been something of a saving grace since his return from war, for he knew that if he saw his friend for an evening, at the gentlemen’s club or at one of their residences, he would soon forget his terrible memories. The amount of brandy that Duncan poured liberally on such nights, it was impossible to remember anything bad or good.

“He was… uncouth,” Lionel said. “Friend or not, I will not have anyone speak that way to my wife.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “You deem compliments uncouth?”

“If they are from the mouth of someone who is not your husband, then yes. You are too beautiful to have any other man near you,” he replied instantly, almost involuntarily, as if the words were being pushed straight from his mind to his lips with no filter in between.

She blinked in what appeared to be surprise. “I see…”

He could practically see what she was thinking: If this is a marriage of convenience, then why does it matter who compliments me? In truth, he did not know why his own mind was not heeding that same rationale.

Perhaps, it was the gown.

The moment she had stepped out of the carriage in that exquisite, unexpected garment of garnet red and gold, her honeyed hair decorated with small, glittering jewels, and that ruby at her throat—his mother’s necklace—he had thought he was looking upon a goddess. She had been smiling, eyes bright, cheeks dusted with a pretty shade of pink, her plump, slightly reddened lips reminding him of what he had almost done when he had given her that necklace.

I nearly kissed her… It had taken all of his worry for the future, combined with his military discipline, to pull away before catastrophe could occur.

But nothing could rid him of the memory of her fingertips massaging his temples, relaxing him in a way he had not felt in years. She had disarmed him briefly, and it had almost cost him dearly. He could not afford to get close to her, he could not afford to desire that intimacy between them, he could not afford to let this marriage become anything other than a formality.

Just then, a different type of catastrophe struck.

Lionel had been so lost in his thoughts that he had missed the next step, his foot coming down on something that was not quite the solidity of the dance floor. It was… slippery. And as it happened, Amelia’s eyes widened in horror, at the very second that a loud ripping sound greeted his confused ears.

“Oh… oh no!” she gasped, her hand fumbling along the seams of her gown to find what he had torn. “I think something has ripped.”

Lionel, however, could see the damage. The seam underneath her arm had popped open.

“Amelia, I am so very sorry,” he hurried to say, taking a half step back so he would not catch her dress again. “It will be fixed as soon as possible.”

To his surprise, as Amelia found the torn seam, her expression did not remain aghast. Instead, her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes alight with humor as she laughed behind her palm. Her cheeks turned that lovely shade of pink again, enchanting him.

“It was not your fault,” she said cheerfully. “I told you I was a terrible dancer, but I do think this is a first for me. Usually, I am so far from my partner that they have no chance of stepping on my dress. I would have been distressed if it was not a clean tear, but it is—the gown is not ruined, and I shall not let this ruin anything either.”

He stared at her, bewildered. “But you cannot keep dancing with a torn dress.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “No one will notice, as long as I keep my arm down, and I am… rather enjoying this dance. As you said, it will be fixed soon enough, so there is no reason to end this dance early when I can manage to hide it.”

She demonstrated her plan, clamping her arm against her side as she continued through the dance, that radiant smile never leaving her face. He could not understand it; she should have been furious with him, as he was with himself. In all his life, he had never been so clumsy. He would not have made a very good soldier if he was prone to such things, but around her, he kept making missteps.

What is she doing to me?

He made sure to leave an additional gap between them, watchful of where her skirts were, as they continued on, joining hands to promenade side by side. As they did, he was caught by a bombardment of that intoxicating perfume once more, the scent infiltrating his senses until he feared he might make another spectacle of himself. The sight and scent and sound of her was enough to make any gentleman stumble.

“You see,” she whispered conspiratorially. “No one has noticed. After all, there is no one else here but me and you, just as you said.”

He cast her a sideways glance that she did not notice, her blue gaze fixed ahead as they promenaded up and around the dance floor in a half circle, returning to their original positions. It astounded him that gentlemen had not been fighting tooth and nail for the privilege of marrying her sooner, for she might have been the most remarkable woman he had ever met.

And I wish that we had been able to marry under different circumstances, he mused absently, his heart heavy. For she had no notion of the truth, and why he would have to remain distant for as long as he had with her.

It was the first time in a long while that he felt a prickle of anger at the prospect of his fate, but that was the one thing no man could fight and win—the destiny that was already written in the stars.

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