Page 44 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
Her response to him, he had to admit, was perfect. Not overly unctuous and gushing, but neither was she disinterested. She was pleasant and unassuming. He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
Miss Cherrington glanced over to Jo, but Matthew forced himself to keep his gaze firmly fixed on the dark-haired young woman. She took his arm, and he led her onto the dance floor.
He bowed, she curtsied, and the dance began.
She was a good dancer, and that boded well for their future, he supposed. And she smiled graciously and appeared as though she was enjoying herself.
She wasn’t all fiery curves under his hands like Jo had been. But that was of no consequence.
He supposed he should attempt conversation. “Where is your family from, Miss Cherrington?”
“Cumbria. Have you ever visited the area, Your Grace?”
Only once. On his way to Gretna Green with Fanny Fleming. He swallowed hard as he completed a figure and they were face-to-face once again. “Never, but I hear it’s a lovely part of England.”
“Oh, it is. I haven’t been there since my father died—”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said automatically.
“Thank you.” They separated into another figure. When they were back together, she said, “It has been many years, and my brother Charles sold the house a decade ago. But I would like to return to Cumbria one day. My happiest days were spent up there. My sisters and I spent so many summer afternoons by the lakeshore, our nurse feared we’d cook ourselves to leather under the sun.”
“Her fear seems to have been unfounded.” Her skin was perfectly adequate. Not leathery at all.
“Thank goodness,” she murmured.
Her skirts swished around his lower legs as they executed a turning figure with another couple. “How many sisters do you have?” he asked her.
“Four. And one brother, Charles. He is the oldest of the six of us—and he is a wonderful brother. Actually, we are all quite close.”
He continued to ask her questions, and she answered readily, telling him about her passion for drawing and playing the piano, and her more secretive love of singing. She talked more about her family, and about her many friends among the fashionable set in town.
He could find absolutely nothing wrong with her, though he was trying his damnedest to find something.
This lady might make an acceptable duchess. In a few weeks, he just might make her his bride. He gazed down at her in a rare moment of silence between them. It seemed odd, to think of this stranger as someone with whom he might spend the rest of his life.
He remembered his parents, who’d not only been husband and wife, but they’d been best friends as well, with true respect and admiration for each other. How many times had his father told him his mother was the most beautiful and intelligent woman in the world? And how many times had his mother told him his father was the most handsome and wise man in the world? Countless. Until he was seventeen and realized that they were, in fact, mortal, he’d been close to believing his parents could walk on water if they ever wished to. And if they did, they’d do it together.
He was quite sure he could never see Harriet the way that his father had seen his mother. But that was all right. It was to be expected. His parents were a rare jewel of a couple. That type of love was as uncommon as an egg-sized diamond, and it wasn’t for him.
It was safer to guard his heart because he knew what was likely to happen when he didn’t. He’d given himself fully to one person only once, and he wouldn’t be stupid enough to do it again. It was better to protect oneself against love, to never allow it to penetrate your armor, than to allow it to take hold and destroy you.
He gripped Harriet Cherrington’s hand, thinking these thoughts, girding himself, and as he looked down at her, she offered him a gentle smile that made him feel safe. Safe from being mocked, made a fool of, taunted, and all the things he’d endured after his parents had died. Especially heartbreak.
She could be the one.
Lowercase.
Chapter Thirteen
The evening was going swimmingly. The duke had danced twice with Harriet and was at this moment dancing his second dance with Miss Islington, who seemed smitten with him. Still, Jo felt that the duke had been more receptive during his dances with Harriet.
She hoped.
Harriet had been popular tonight. Her dark hair contrasted with the shiny white of her elegant satin ball dress overlaid with tulle, and she looked quite fetching. Now, she was sitting in a chair next to Jo, fanning herself demurely while sipping at a glass of punch. In a few minutes, she’d be dancing again with yet another gentleman who’d asked her earlier in the evening.
No one had asked Jo to dance. Not that she’d expected anyone to, but she couldn’t help the little worm of sadness that wound its way through her. Five years ago, when she attended balls, one or two gentlemen might ask her to dance, but now…no one. It was like she’d climbed the hill then toppled over it to land firmly on the shelf, where she’d be glued forevermore.
Jo the spinster. Jo the old maid. Jo the ape-leader.
