Page 113 of Duke of Fire
“Between whom?” August asked.
“My money is on Lady Pemberton and the French ambassador’s wife.”
He grinned. “Pemberton will win. She bites.”
As the sisters spun away to greet their husbands and claim a position near the orchestra, August and Eliza found themselves momentarily alone beneath the grand chandelier.
“You do look lovely,” he said quietly.
“You’ve seen me in this dress three times,” Eliza replied.
“It improves with repetition. Like poetry or my regard for you.”
She tried not to smile. “You are insufferable.”
“And you are dangerously close to laughing in public. Control yourself, Duchess.”
“Or what?”
August’s eyes glinted. “I shall be forced to make a scene.”
She dared him. “Go on, then.”
But just then, the orchestra launched into a country dance that required immediate partner attendance, and August’s grand declaration was replaced with the ceremonial offering of an arm. Eliza accepted, and together, they joined the throng of color and motion.
They danced. He led, as always, with the assurance of a man who never once questioned his own rhythm or that of his partner. Eliza followed, not because she was obliged but because she wanted to. She trusted him which, as she had learned, was a far greater feat than simply following a set of prescribed steps.
They spoke little during the dance. Instead, their conversation was conducted in a series of looks, of small smiles and the press of his hand at her waist. For the first time in weeks, she forgot about the eyes upon her, the expectations, even Lady Pemberton’s insatiable hunger for gossip. It was simply she and August, spinning together at the center of everything.
After the final turn, he did not release her hand at once. Instead, he bent to murmur, “If you are not otherwise occupied, Duchess, I would like very much to see you on the terrace.”
“Are you inviting me to flee my own ball?”
He smiled, lips close to her ear. “I am inviting you to be selfish for a single moment.”
“Lead the way, then, Your Grace.”
He did.
The ballroom’s side doors led to a terrace bathed in moonlight. The night was cool and smelled faintly of earth and green things. The music of the dance still drifted through, but out here, it was softer, distant, as though they had stepped into another world entirely.
August took her hands then her face and drew her close. “You are very quiet,” he said, searching her expression.
“I was simply thinking how strange it is to be content.”
He laughed, quick and low, and kissed her then—without the urgency of their previous reunions, without the need to prove or demand or persuade. It was the kiss of a man who knew, finally, that his heart had been accepted, and the kiss of a woman who had stopped guarding her own.
She leaned into him, her hands slipping around his neck. “We must go back inside,” she murmured. “You are about to start a rumor.”
August’s response was to kiss the tip of her nose. “Let them talk. Let them think me utterly besotted. They would be right.”
She could not help it. She laughed.
A sharp gasp interrupted them. Eliza twisted, still caught in her husband’s arms, and saw Lady Pemberton standing at the threshold, fan in hand, mouth open in the perfect O of a woman who has just found the most precious nugget of society gossip in the entire season.
“Your Grace!” Lady Pemberton gasped, looking from August’s disheveled cravat to Eliza’s position in her husband’s arms. “Forgive me—I was merely— Oh dear.” She nearly swooned with anticipation.
August did not so much as shift. “Lady Pemberton, always a pleasure.”
