Page 15 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
With that, she swept around them, and they both turned to watch as she warmly greeted the older couple who’d just entered the ballroom.
Jo really did like Beatrice. Her father was a marquess, and, as such, she associated with the most influential members of London society. But she had married a commoner and had never treated Jo as if she were “lesser.”
The duke standing beside her was another matter, however. He radiated so much coldness she had to fend off a shiver. With an inner sigh, she turned back to the man.
“Are you having a good evening, Your Grace?”
“Tolerable,” he responded succinctly.
“So, you are a friend of Viscount Coleton?”
“Yes.”
Jo hid another sigh. Such an engaging conversationalist, this one. “The same Viscount Coleton who’s dancing with my friend at this moment?”
They both observed the dancers sweeping around the tightly packed ballroom, skirts swinging just inches from her and the duke’s bodies. “Is that your friend in the pink?”
“It is.”
“Then, yes.”
They watched the dancing for a few moments more—well, the duke was watching the dancing. Jo waspretendingto watch the dancing while surreptitiously observing the man standing beside her. He was very handsome in profile—straight, sloping nose, strong jaw, thick, wavy hair brushing the back of his collar, his black tailcoat and breeches accentuating his masculine form.
But he was so stern. So unapproachable.
She smiled up at him. “Have you danced tonight?”
He started, as if he’d forgotten she was standing beside him. “Me? No.”
“This party is brimming with eligible ladies. Perhaps you should ask one of them to dance. Who knows, one of them might be The One.”
His jaw flexed as he ground his teeth. “All this talk of The One,” he muttered.
“Isn’t that what you’re searching for? I assume you don’t intend to engage in polygamy.”
“Of course not,” he huffed, looking offended she’d dare to utter so vulgar a word.
“Then there is only to be one bride for you, and therefore talk of The One shouldn’t be so offensive.”
“I suppose not,” he said tightly. “But must you capitalize it?”
“What do you mean?”
“By your tone. I can tell you capitalize The One in your mind as you are speaking it.”
“Even if I am, what’s so wrong with that?”
He shook his head, exasperated, then turned back to the dancers. “You want me to dance? Very well. I’ll dance. Whom shall I ask, o’ esteemed matchmaker?”
Me.
Jo blinked, disconcerted by the thought. Her? Dance with the Duke of Crestmont at a party attended by the most respected members of theton? Ridiculous.
She doggedly scanned the crowd from one end of the ballroom to the other, but about halfway through, her gaze snagged on someone. It was that horrible heartbreaker, Charles Cherrington, dancing with a dazzling young woman wearing diamonds.
Jo’s fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. “Her.” She gestured subtly to the diamond dazzler, who smiled up at Charles, the chandelier light making the gems in her ears sparkle. “Dance with her.”
The duke frowned. “She is very…slender.”
