Page 87 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
He shrugged. “I do.”
She licked her lips, knowing how unwelcome his uncle’s presence must be. “How… How is he?”
His chest rose and fell with a breath. “The same.”
Ugh. That did not bode well.
A smile flickered over his lips. “Let’s put it this way. I was happy to come to this ball tonight, knowing I would have the opportunity to be away from him for a while.”
“I’m sorry.” It must be quite bad if he preferred attending a ball over spending an evening with his uncle.
“That and…well, I rather meant to speak with Miss Cherrington tonight, but—” He shrugged.
She assumed by “speaking” to Harriet he meant proposing, but Harriet was at home. So, no proposal tonight. Jo couldn’t stop the rush of relief that swamped her.
Which was stupid. Shewantedhim to marry her, for God’s sake!
The dance ended, and in the brief break between sets, Matthew and Jo talked to Mary and Martha Cherrington, then to a flushed and out-of-breath Lilly, who was filling herself with punch but still chattered on about the pretty lights and flowers and how lovely it was to have a ball outside rather than in a hot and overcrowded ballroom.
Then, finally, Matthew coaxed Jo onto the dance floor. When he clasped her gloved hand with his own and slid his other arm around her waist, she trembled. Looking up, she saw him gazing at her with tender affection in his eyes, and love surged through her, stealing her breath. How she loved this handsome, proud, gentle man.
His arm was firm around her waist, his fingers strong in hers. He radiated virility and masculinity in a way that made her center grow molten and gooseflesh break out over her arms.
The waltz began, and he swept her around the dance floor, turning her in huge, sweeping circles that made her laugh. He smiled and took her on another grand turn around the floor, making her feel once again like she was flying in his arms. She’d never danced like this, with a man holding her so closely, so sensuously, as he gazed down at her. The waltz was fairly new to London, and still scandalous, only danced at private balls like this one, and then usually whispered about for weeks afterward. She wondered if her name would be in the gossip sheets tomorrow: “Seen waltzing at the Houghton House ball with the Duke of Crestmont, the obscure and plain spinster, Joanna Porter. One can only speculate by what means she obtained an invitation to the event…”
Right now, Jo didn’t care one bit whether she’d be the subject of gossip. All she cared about was Matthew, how he was looking at her like she was the only woman in the world, how he guided her through the waltz with his firm and confident hand.
It ended too soon. The music stopped, and their feet came to a standstill, his arm slipping from her waist as her hand fell from his shoulder. His hand squeezed hers a bit tighter then released it. They stepped back from each other, stared at each other for a long moment, exchanging a look that felt as if it spoke volumes, then he bowed and she curtsied. Then he escorted her to the edge of the dance floor where they encountered Lord Coleton, who greeted Jo and then gestured toward the sky.
“Rain?” he asked Matthew.
The duke’s eyes traveled heavenward, and he studied the sky for a moment, though what he saw up there, Jo would never know. The night was utterly black. Even if there had been stars, they were obscured by the haze of coal smoke. “Yes, in an hour or so.” He frowned. “I should have known this earlier.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Lord Coleton clapped Matthew on the back and winked. “You were distracted.”
Matthew gave his friend a dark look, but then Lilly came up and pulled Jo away.
An hour later, the rain started falling, and while the Duke of Trent invited everyone to continue the festivities inside, Lilly and Jo decided to go home instead.
It was much later, when she was tucked into bed, that she realized she and Matthew had never said goodbye.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The following afternoon, Jo and Lilly went to see Harriet, bearing a hearty pot of Mrs. Ferguson’s get-well-soon stew. Not only was Mrs. Ferguson’s stew delicious, but Bess, Lilly, Mama, and Jo ate it whenever they came down with a cold, and all of them swore it made any illness disappear faster.
Jo had been trying to hide her melancholy all morning, her mind on constant repeat with the reasons why the Duke of Crestmont needed to marry Harriet Cherrington, but she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. This morning, Bess had drawn her aside and asked her if she was all right.
“Of course I am,” she’d said. “Why do you ask?”
“You look pale. Do you think you might be coming down with something?”
“I don’t think so. I feel fine, really.”
Bess had given her a doubtful look, and Jo had opened her mouth to tell the truth. Where to begin, though? The truth felt so enormous, it seemed to fill all of her, ready to pour out in an avalanche of tears and gibberish. Still, she should try. She trusted Bess, and Bess was the most sensible person she knew. “I have—”
Just then, Lilly had wandered into her room and said they should go visit poor Harriet and take some get-well-soon stew with them.
Bess and Jo had exchanged a glance in which Jo silently told her friend they’d talk later.
