Page 67 of The Lion Duke's Proposal
She pressed the flat of her palms against the open pages of the book in her lap, looked at the high stone perimeter wall, and decided that she would.
She almost believed it.
Chapter Nineteen
She had been reading for perhaps an hour when he knocked.
"Get ready," he said from the doorway.
Julia looked up from her book. He was already fully dressed. A dark, perfectly tailored coat, a pristine white cravat, and that contained formality he wore the way other men wore comfort. He stood with his shoulders braced, casting a long shadow across the threshold.
"For what?" she asked.
"There is a ball tonight."
She waited for the rest of it. The explanation, the venue, the host. There was no rest of it. He just looked at her.
"When?" she asked.
"How does tomorrow morning sound?"
She put the book down, her pulse quickening slightly as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the corridor.
The Harcourt house on St. James's Square was lit from top to bottom, the towering windows blazing amber against the dark London sky. The street outside was a slow, agonizing procession of carriages.
Julia sat across from Leander in the plush, dark interior of the coach. She looked out at the grand townhouse and felt something she had not expected. Something that, after a moment, she recognized as the first tentative edge of feeling like she belonged somewhere.
He had not told her why they were here. He had handed her into the carriage at the townhouse, his leather-gloved hand firm around her fingers, and had spoken of nothing but the evening air.
She had decided not to ask, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her curiosity. Now the carriage moved forward by microscopic increments, the light from the Harcourt torches spilling through the glass, catching the sharp line of Leander's jaw.
"Lady Harcourt's ball," she said, breaking the silence.
"Yes."
"Mrs. Hartley mentioned you have not attended Lady Harcourt's ball in three years running.”
"No."
She looked at him through the shadows. He was staring out the window at the arriving guests with the even, impenetrable composure he carried everywhere.
She could not see enough of his face to truly read it, and she had learned by now that asking him directly what he was thinking produced answers that were accurate but entirely incomplete. She looked back at the house instead, smoothing the front of her gown.
The carriage groaned to a final halt. The footman snapped the door open, letting in the roar of the street.
Leander stepped out first, turned, and offered her his hand. She took it, the strength in his grip grounding her as she stepped down onto the cobblestones.
The noise of the city swelled around them. The shouting of linkboys, the clatter of hooves, and the heavy scent of expensive perfumes. He tucked her hand firmly into the crook of his arm, his tall frame shielding her from the press of the crowd, and walked her up the sweeping stone steps and through the front door.
The ballroom was suffocatingly full.
It was the particular brand of crowd that happened only when Lady Harcourt sent invitations. A hundred members of thetonmoved through candlelight and music with the density of a room that knew it was the only place to be in London tonight.
The orchestra was in excellent form, the violins soaring over the chatter. Thousands of gardenias filled the air with a heavy, sweet fragrance that caught in Julia's throat. The massive crystal chandeliers were lit to the last candle, throwing a warm, shifting gold light over the diamonds and silks below.
Julia had a single moment to take it in before the room enveloped them.
It started at the edges of the floor. A turned head here, a conversation paused mid-sentence there, a woman on the far side of the room touching her companion's arm and directing his attention sharply across the threshold.
