She could be tolerable.
He was opening his mouth to speak again when he spotted her. Standing at the front of the ballroom, a vision in silver, looking as though she’d been plucked from the night sky and sent to honor Society with her presence.
Her hair was the black of night also, caught up in a luxurious swirl of curls, bound only by a simple silver ribbon. Her figure was lush, and curved, and he would have sworn his hands knew how she felt. Or more accurately, his fingers itched to touch her.
Her skin wasn’t the moonlight pale of most of the ladies in the ballroom; it was touched by gold, as though the sun had claimed a bit of her loveliness as well.
“Who is that?” he heard his grandmother say, distinct disapproval in her tone.
“I have no—” And then he froze, because he recognized the gentleman next to her, and he swallowed as he realized who she was.
“That is Lady Ana Maria Dutton,” he said.
“Oh!” his grandmother replied, sounding surprised. “She is the cousin to the Duke of Hasford, she is quite respectable.”
Her meaning was implicit in her words.
“Out of the question.”
“Why—?”
“No.” He tore his gaze away from her to face his grandmother. “Absolutely not.”
Because it was Ana Maria, and that meant he knew her, had known her for most of his life. Had cared for her, in his way. He would not subject her to his passions.
Not when he was terrified of losing control, and how could he not lose control when confronted with such a delicious package encasing a person he knew to be kind, warm, and intelligent?
And he nearly snarled when he met Thaddeus’s gaze, and saw Thad speak to her, and then both of them began to walk toward him, each step an increasingly agonizing reminder of who he was, and who he could be—if he didn’t keep himself tightly contained.
“Over there, it’s Nash,” Thaddeus said, no doubt trying to sound soothing.
He didn’t, of course, because she doubted Thaddeus had ever tried to soothe anyone in his life, but she appreciated the effort nonetheless. He took her arm again. “Let’s go speak with him.”
She nodded, simply because she couldn’t speak. She hadn’t expected to see him here. He seldom, if ever, attended these kinds of entertainments. For all she knew, he had a seraglio of women at home who enjoyed his brute-like manners and inarticulate noises that passed for conversation.
And that idea should not have caused a frisson of sensual awareness coursing through her, but then again, she was a walking oxymoron, so it did.
But he was here. And what was more, he was wearing apparel perfectly suited to the evening—not just a worn jacket that showed the strain at his broad shoulders. For goodness’ sake, he was even wearing a cravat. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him wearing a cravat.
Someone had managed to slick his hair back, and he’d gotten a shave more recently than a few days ago as well. He looked every inch, every foot, a gentleman, and she felt her breath hitch.
He should not be that handsome.
He should not be that commanding, as though his presence obliterated every other person’s appearance in the room.
He should not be the focus of so many of her thoughts, especially late at night.
Damn it.
She swallowed, attempting to regain her icy late-duchess demeanor. Difficult to do when one’s heart was pounding, and one was entirely, keenly aware of another person’s presence.
“Your Grace,” Thaddeus said, making both Nash and Ana Maria stare at him. “What?” he added, glancing between them both. “We are not who we were, we have different obligations now, and different obligations require different courtesies.”
Different obligations require different courtesies.
So perhaps she could just pretend she’d never met the Duke of Malvern before, and that this handsome behemoth in front of her was merely a new acquaintance.
That might work to take her mind off the absolute Nash-ness of him. If she could just think of him as another aristocrat who shared the same beliefs as all the others, beliefs that insisted that women like Ana Maria were only noticed because of their lineage and their wealth, not because of who they were. An aristocrat who would be horrified to learn that until six months ago, Lady Ana Maria had peeled potatoes and scrubbed pots and been treated as less than even the lowliest servant. Because the lowliest servant at least received a salary, whereas Ana Maria had gotten exhortations to do more because she was less.
“Ana Maria?” Thaddeus’s sharp tone pulled her out of her thoughts.
“Yes, Your Grace? Your Grace,” she added, nodding to Nash, whose handsome face twisted into a frown.
“My lady,” he replied, before scowling even more, turning his back to them. “Stop poking me,” he said, and Ana Maria peered around him to see an older woman sitting regally on a chair, her cane stretched toward Nash’s leg.
He held his hand out to the lady, who glared at him but took it, allowing him to draw her to her feet.
Who could possibly make Nash put on reasonable clothing, poke him as though he weren’t an angry bear, and get him to be somewhat polite?
“I’d like to introduce my grandmother, the dowager duchess of Malvern.”
Ah. Ana Maria held her hand out to the other woman as Nash continued speaking. “This is Lady Ana Maria Dutton, and this is the Duke of Hasford.”
The lady peered at Ana Maria, who felt suddenly self-conscious, as though she had a crumb stuck on her lip or something. Then again, she usually felt self-conscious, so perhaps it was just a reminder of her self-consciousness.
She licked her lip just in case.
“It is a pleasure,” the dowager duchess said, even though her tone held no indication that it was. “I have just come to town, and my grandson here has been accommodating enough to allow me to stay with him for a time.”
Ana Maria glanced at Nash, whose expression was set, though she saw his jaw was clenched.
So it was his grandmother who had succeeded in getting him garbed up and here, but she hadn’t been able to do the impossible—make him anyone other than Nash, irritated and taciturn.
And so much for trying to think he was just another aristocrat. She was already keenly aware of every flicker in his expression, every shift in his stance that seemed to scream out, I despise being here, and I might go punch something if I don’t get to leave soon.
But he didn’t. Instead, he did the thing she’d least expect, not in all her years of knowing him.
“Lady Ana Maria, would you care to dance?”
Chapter Three
“Lady Ana Maria, would you care to dance?”
Nash knew it was the correct thing to do, since she didn’t know many people in Society yet, and he imagined she might feel awkward about being seen not dancing.
But it also made him wildly uncomfortable because just a few minutes earlier he had been looking at her as though she was an attractive female, not his best friend’s sister.
Dancing would mean touching her. And touching her would mean—well, touching her. This was Ana Maria. Someone he’d known from when he was ten years old, reeling from the shock of his mother’s departure, searching for someone to take refuge with. He’d found Sebastian and Thaddeus, and by extension, her. Though he hadn’t paid much attention to her, neither then nor even more recently, except to think of her as a sister.
What he was thinking now was not remotely fraternal. Which made it feel like it was wrong, especially when he thought about how Seb and Thad would react if they knew.
They could never know. She could never know.
He still felt as though he couldn’t breathe from the impact of seeing her. And he couldn’t blame it entirely on the neckcloth. It was her. Up close, her gown was even more flimsily beautiful, not that he’d ever thought such a thing about an item of clothing before. But the threads in the fabric shimmered in the candlelight, and now he could see the soft, golden swells o
f her breasts, which were on gorgeous display thanks to the gown’s structure.
Her gown dipped in at her waist, then flared out at her hips. Wide, curvy hips that were a woman’s hips. Hips made to be held while—damn, he should not be thinking that. Not any of that.
“I would love to dance, thank you.”
Her voice reached him through a distant fog of confusion, discomfort, and a fierce longing.
“Excellent,” he heard his grandmother say.
“Excellent,” Thaddeus echoed, only he didn’t sound nearly as convinced as the dowager duchess. Because he knew full well what Nash’s opinion of parties and dancing and such were, and that Nash was usually spoiling for a fight.
Although he only spoiled for a justified fight. And he doubted there would be any cases of systemic oppression here.
He reached for her hand, and she raised it, placing her fingers in his palm. Was it his imagination, or did they tremble?
He wished she weren’t wearing gloves so he could feel her skin. No, he was relieved she was wearing gloves so he couldn’t feel her skin. That was it.
They walked to the dance floor as the musicians began to play again.
A waltz. Of course.
He placed his hand at her waist. Keenly aware of that hip just below. That breast just above. She slid her hand onto his shoulder with a faint smile.
“What?” he blurted.
“It’s just you’re so tall it’s a bit of a stretch.”
He grunted in reply.
The music began, and he moved, trying to recall the steps of the dance while also trying not to step on her feet. He had far more experience with dodging blows than twirling steps.
They danced in silence, him keeping his gaze steadfastly on her face—not allowing his eyes to slide lower, toward where all that golden skin gleamed in the candlelight.
“We were supposed to dance before.”
“What?” He bumped into another couple and glared at the gentleman, who quickly ensured he and his partner were out of Nash’s range.
“We were supposed to dance at my party. Not precisely my debut, since I’m far too old”—she accompanied those words with a rueful chuckle—“but the party Thaddeus gave after when—after . . .” she trailed off.
“When everything happened,” he supplied. As though those words weren’t the vaguest description and therefore actually helpful.
“Yes.” She smiled as she spoke. Perhaps the words were actually helpful. He wished words were as easy to master as punches.
If they were, he might never stop talking. Or he might even start talking. Of his own volition, not because someone spoke to him.
“But then Sebastian went and . . .” she said, shrugging.
“Mm,” he said in agreement.
Her half brother, Sebastian, had punched a gentleman in a ballroom. Something all of them would have predicted Nash doing, not Seb or Thad.
“So this is our first dance,” she finished with a bright smile. He nearly staggered at the impact, which would definitely have resulted in some squashed toes.
“Mm,” he said again.
Her smile faltered, and he wanted to growl at himself for doing whatever it was that had made that happen. He was supposed to protect her from disappointment, not cause it.
But it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. She was his best friend’s sister, which meant not only that he already cared too much about her—because he cared fiercely about the few people in his world—but also that he would not allow himself to be anything but her protector.
“Did you like your party?”
It wasn’t much of a conversation starter. First of all, it was a yes or no question. And what kind of person would possibly say no?
It was the same kind of inanity he scorned in other people: “How are you?” “Fine.”
Meaningless. What was the point of speaking if you weren’t going to say anything? Far better to do something.
“Yes.”
Right. Exactly what he had anticipated.
“I wished that it had been Sebastian hosting. Nothing against Thaddeus,” she said, nodding toward where Thaddeus stood in his usual rigid stance, “but Sebastian is why I was persuaded to do it in the first place.”
“You—you didn’t want a party?”
He thought all ladies liked parties.
She shook her head. “Not particularly. I don’t like the attention.”
They had that in common, then.
“And yes, it was a relief when”—she raised her fingers off his shoulder and waggled them vaguely—“but it wasn’t that I was longing to join Society.” She glanced down, her cheeks turning pink. “Although I do like the clothing.”
So did he. He liked her clothing a lot. The contrast of the shimmering silver fabric encasing all of that luscious golden skin.
Damn it, he needed to forget all that. His mind searched frantically for something that wouldn’t indicate where his thoughts had gone.
“What were you longing to do?”
Her gaze snapped back to his, her eyes wide in clear surprise. They had that in common as well—he was shocked he’d managed to ask a reasonable question despite being entirely distracted by her.
And then her lips curled into a faint smile and he discovered he really, really wanted to hear the answer to the question.
What were you longing to do?
So many thoughts flooded into her mind at his words—thoughts that spiraled out from one another like a fantastic pinwheel adventure. Things that were directly in contradiction to one another, as suited a walking oxymoron.
Things like study, and travel, and stay at home and redecorate everything. Things like wear all the gowns and dance all night and go to the country and tromp about in the fields and converse with cows. Things like find a purpose and be aimless.
“Uh—” she began after a moment.
“Never mind, it was a foolish question.” He sounded—wait, was he actually regretting something? Nash, of the Grunts? Who stalked through life as though he were determined to imprint his very large presence everywhere?
How could someone like him possibly regret anything? And what hope did the rest of humanity—the non-grunting, not massive part—have?
Well. She should be able to answer that. She was going to forge ahead in her determination to find her purpose. What she longed for.
“It wasn’t fool—” she began, then stopped because the music stopped. Her voice floated out into the sea of people, thankfully not too loud, but loud enough that she winced to hear it herself.
Stop that, too. Stop embarrassment, and the potential for wincing, and anything that might indicate that you are not all you could be. That you are going to be.
“Hold on a minute.” His words, his command, made her freeze. His hand was still on her waist, and his touch there made it feel as though she were burning.
Ice and fire.
Making her turn into a lukewarm puddle.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t want you to get trampled.” He nodded toward the flow of people leaving the dance floor, others walking eagerly to take their places. A gentleman jostled her, and he snarled.
She suppressed a giggle at the gentleman’s startled expression.
“Thank you for my dance, finally,” she said. She met his gaze, and she felt her breath hitch.
His eyes were dark brown, she knew that, she’d known that since the first time she’d met him, for goodness’ sake, and yet the deep mahogany depths of them, the intensity, made it feel as though she were looking into them for the first time.
First time dancing together. First time feeling the impact of his gaze.
Even though that was not true. She’d felt the impact of it earlier, when his eyes had traveled over her face, down her neck, lower down to her chest and lower still, ending up, eventually, at her feet.
Each of his looks had sent off a skittering of sparks through her whole body, as though his look was ig
niting her.
Fire.
She licked her suddenly dry lips, and he made another noise, a growl deep in his throat. A noise she’d heard many times from him, and yet this was the first time it had caused such a reaction, low and deep in her belly.
The first time for that, too.
The dancers—both arriving and departing—had found their spots, so they were standing on their own. There was no longer a need for him to hesitate, and yet he hadn’t moved.
Why hadn’t he moved yet?
“I’ll take you back to Thad.”
Why had she even thought about his moving? When she would have been perfectly happy to just stand there, burning and freezing all at the same time.
But he was walking. Even though it was so much more than that.
If there was a word for “confident, predatory walk” she wished it would pop into her brain right now. Because that was what he was doing, keeping her beside him, his arm holding hers, his every movement one of purpose and intent.
I’ll take you back to Thad.
And that was precisely, exactly, and efficiently what he was doing.
She shouldn’t wish he would want to spend more time with her. Unfortunately for her, she was an oxymoron, and so she very much wished he wanted to spend more time with her. Even though there were myriad reasons why she shouldn’t wish that.
All that this told her was that she needed to figure out her purpose, and quickly. She couldn’t very wall walk around wishing and not wishing, wanting and not wanting, when none of that—or all of that—would get her nowhere. Or somewhere.
Tomorrow. She’d get up tomorrow and go find something she longed for. Not a person, or a status. Some sort of goal that would carry her through this purgatory she’d found herself in, albeit a purgatory where she got to wear beautiful gowns.
She grinned at the thought.
Chapter Four
“I hope you received my flowers, Lady Ana Maria.”
Lord Brunley was pleasant enough, she supposed. Teeth and a general appearance of handsomeness. If that was what one wanted.
She was fairly certain she did not want that.
Tall, Duke, and Dangerous Page 3