Page 77 of A Virgin to Tempt the Duke

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“I would be honored, kind sir,” she accepted with a giggle that sounded bright, effortless, and entirely hollow, at least to her.

She allowed herself to be guided away, swaying her hips, dissolving into the swirling blur of the room, refusing to look back. She didn’t need to turn around to know. A sharp, prickling warmth at the nape of her neck told her the duke’s gaze was burning right through the silk of her gown.

Let him watch.

Lord Wexford danced with her twice at the Ellsworths’ ball that weekend. It was the talk of the ton and her first public declaration of interest from a suitor, wrapped in the respectable guise of a quadrille and a waltz. He was thirty-four, eminently respectable, and entirely without vice. No children, no prior marriages. It was a fact that frustrated the ton’s gossips, who had spent twenty years trying to unearth a single scandalous debt or mistress to no avail.

He was, by all accounts, a perfect match.

“Are you fond of the Ellsworths’ gatherings, Lady Birchall?” He inquired during the quadrille.

“I am fond enough of them,” she said.

“Forgive me,” he said as he wiped sweat from his brow, “I find the heat is insufferable in these ballrooms.”

“I confess I find the heat trying as well,” she replied as they twirled.

“One might almost wish for winter balls, though I suppose the roads would object.” He said it pleasantly, and she smiled because it seemed the thing to do, though she could not believe they were talking about the climate.

Later, during the waltz, he complimented her gown.

“A very fine shade of blue, Lady Birchall,” he said as they moved through the steps, gesturing to her dress.

“Thank you, Lord Wexford,” she returned simply.

A gentle nod here, a quiet “thank you” there. Smile politely, maintain soft eye contact. The ideal wife.

“Do you read novels?”

“Quite avidly,” she said, intrigued by the question. “And you?”

“I confess, I do not have the patience for them. I am far too busy for such things.”

“I see.”

He held her at the correct distance, his hand light at her waist, his steps unfailingly precise. She waited for something in him to surprise her. Nothing came. Even his face possessed a peculiar neutrality. It was the kind of face that Anna could look at for ten minutes and struggle to reconstruct it in her mind when she closed her eyes.

He left no impression. It was like a footprint in the sand that would soon be washed away by the tide.

When they had finished the last dance of the evening, he gave a small bow. She looked passingly over his shoulder and around the room. Frederick was nowhere to be seen that night. She took a deep breath.

“May I call on you this coming Tuesday, Lady Birchall?”

“That would be most acceptable,” she said with a small curtsy, and no reason to object.

As she waited for him in her sitting room Tuesday morning, she again had trouble remembering his appearance. He wasn’t short, nor tall. His hair was brown, or so she thought.

Is his nose straight or slightly askew? Are his eyes grey or merely a faded blue?

He arrived at the absolute stroke of the hour and was ushered by her butler to the sitting room where she waited. She did her best to take in his appearance, which was nice enough, hoping she would better remember that he had pale blue eyes, a straight nose, and brown hair.

“Good day, Lady Birchall,” he said as he kissed her hand. “You look well today.”

“Thank you, Lord Wexford,” she said as she rose and gestured to a chair across from her. “Please, do have a seat.”

“Thank you, Lady Birchall. I admire your taste in furnishings.”