Page 69 of Duke of Moonstone
“That is your name.”
“You have never used it before. To my face.”
“I used it the other night. In the library.”
“You said it to the room. That is not the same thing.”
He turned her through the steps. Her hand tightened on his shoulder. “Would you prefer I return to ‘Duchess’?”
“I would prefer you to be consistent. You cannot use my Christian name only when it suits your purposes.”
“What purposes would those be?”
“I have not yet determined, but I suspect they exist.”
He almost smiled. He caught it but not quite—something showed in his expression that made her breath change, a small catch that she covered by looking past his shoulder at the other couples.
“You dance well,” she said after a moment.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. You are not generally known for your willingness to participate in enjoyable activities.”
“Dancing is a practical skill.”
“Of course, it is. Nothing so frivolous as pleasure is involved.”
“I did not say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“You presume to know my thoughts now?”
“Someone must. You certainly never share them.” She looked up at him, and the challenge in her eyes was softened by something warmer, something that looked like it wanted to become a smile if only he would let it. “Tell me one thing you are thinking. Right now. This very moment.”
That you are the most infuriating woman I have ever met. That I cannot stop looking at you. That I have no idea what I am doing, and I have not felt this out of my depth since I was twenty-years-old, standing in a solicitor’s office, learning that everything I knew was gone.
“I am thinking,” he said, “that you ask a great many questions for a woman who claims to value silence.”
“I have never once claimed to value silence.”
“You were very quiet in the library the other evening.”
“I was reading. That is different.”
“Is it?”
“Entirely.” Her fingers shifted on his shoulder. The slightest adjustment. He felt it everywhere. “Silence chosen is not the same as silence imposed.”
The music slowed. Their steps slowed with it. The room had fallen away—the other couples, the candles, Lady Montfort’s watchful gaze from her chair by the fire, Henry’s easy smile from across the room. None of it reached the space between his hand on her waist and her eyes on his face.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked. The question came out quieter than he intended.
She studied him. “Are you?”
“I asked first.”
“So you did.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “Yes. I am.”
