And it might explain why she became so closed-mouthed whenever he brought up her uncle Armie.
Could she be protecting her brother? Come to think of it, she’d grown nervous again today when the subject of Wolfe had come up. This might all be about her brother. She might actually know what Sheridan already suspected—that Wolfe had murdered her uncle. She might even be complicit in it.
The possibility chilled Grey. Could she really be such a schemer? Could he be so mistaken in her character?
She had managed to charm the entire family in a matter of weeks. Look at how easily Gwyn had accepted her. And Mother, too. Even Sheridan. Could she have a reason for ingratiating herself with the family?
With him?
Grey scowled. If that was her motive, she would be disappointed. She was wrong for him for so many reasons. She wore her heart on her sleeve; he had none. She blurted out her every thought; he held his closer to his chest than his shirt. She was eager to please everyone in her orbit; he was eager to avoid everyone in his.
Yet he couldn’t look away from her as she danced, her movements graceful and her face flushing with enjoyment as she nimbly—
His eyes narrowed. She’d picked up the steps of the minuet with surprising ease for a woman who’d protested she could never learn the steps. She was a puzzle, to be sure, one that he meant to untangle.
And he must do it carefully. Thorn was right about one thing: Unless Grey meant to pursue her, his behavior toward her must be above reproach.
Never again did Grey intend to be that ten-year-old boy who craved love and attention, only to discover that the people who should have offered it—his aunt and uncle—were incapable of anything but using him to advance their own situation. Never again would he give anyone else the power to hurt him.
All the same, when he heard a door open and shut somewhere and realized it could be Thorn coming to join the ladies, he walked swiftly into the ballroom. No way in hell was he going to let his brother be the one to dance with her.
He told himself it was because he needed more of a chance to find out what had her so agitated about her uncle Armie’s death. Needed to be certain she wasn’t nurturing any secret hopes of becoming his duchess.
But the truth was, Grey simply wanted to dance with her.
So dance with her he would. He would just have to make sure to keep his wits about him as he did.
Beatrice was concentrating so hard on dancing the minuet that she didn’t notice Grey had returned until he spoke in that seductive voice of his.
“If you’re ready to dance with a partner, Miss Wolfe, I’m at your disposal.”
Gwyn greeted this announcement with a clap of her hands. “Wonderful! Beatrice really needs a man to practice with because when I take the lead, I forget what I’m doing and fall into the woman’s part. Much more of that and she’ll never get the way of it.”
Beatrice wiped her clammy hands on her skirt. What if she made a fool of herself in front of him? “The one to blame for my not having the way of it is me.”
“Nonsense.” Gwyn smiled. “You’re better than you think. And Grey will help you perfect your dancing, I’m sure.” She glanced to the door. “Or Thorn, if he’s the one to dance with you. Where is Thorn, anyway?”
When she looked to Grey for an answer, he shrugged. “Last I saw him, he was heading off to find brandy.”
“Lord help me,” Gwyn muttered. “You two start while I fetch him. But I’m not letting him dance if he’s foxed. That won’t help anyone.”
“It certainly won’t help Bea,” Gwyn’s mother remarked from the pianoforte, although Gwyn was already gone. Aunt Lydia shot Grey a defeated look. “Can’t you get Thorn to stop drinking so much, dearest?”
Grey walked into the alcove and around the pianoforte to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Everyone grieves in their own way. You try to stay busy to keep your mind off missing Maur—missing Father. Thorn drinks. You must give him time to mourn.”
His mother patted his hand. “And how do you grieve, Grey?”
He bent to kiss her head. “By teaching Miss Wolfe to dance the minuet, of course. Play some music so we can try to forget our loss. Then when Gwyn arrives with Thorn, they can join in.”
His mother’s gaze darkened. “It will be a slow and somber minuet. I can’t bear a happy tune just now.”
“All the better to help Miss Wolfe learn,” he said, his voice noticeably softer. He squeezed his mother’s shoulder, then returned to Beatrice and held out his hand. “Shall we?”
As she let him lead her to the floor, Beatrice was all too aware that the duke was holding her hand. And neither of them wore gloves, as they normally would in a ballroom. Granted, he didn’t hold her hand long, since the dance didn’t allow for it, but still, every brush of his fingers against hers drove the air right out of her lungs.
After a few steps, which she thought she’d executed fairly well, he caught her hand for a turn, his gaze intent upon her face. “You dance better than you led me to believe.”
“Your sister is an excellent teacher.”
“And you’re a quick study,” he said blandly.
“Thank God!” she blurted out. “I-I mean, thank heaven. I was sure I’d bumble through it once I was dancing with an actual man.”
Amusement glinted in his eyes. “An actual man? As opposed to what? A painting of one? An effigy? A statue, perhaps.”
Against her better judgment, she laughed. “As opposed to your sister. I haven’t managed to master the French version, though. I can only do the English one.”
“Not too many people do the French step in London anyway. But if you really want to learn, it’s not so difficult. Just let me lead you.”
“I will do whatever you wish, Your Grace.”
Something dangerously enticing flickered in his gaze. “Every time you offer to do whatever I wish, you tempt me, Beatrice,” he murmured. “So don’t offer unless you mean it.”
Blast, she was in trouble. If he kept saying things like that, she’d melt into a puddle. The duke could seduce a saint, and she was no saint, just a woman caught in circumstances beyond her control, with a man who turned her knees wobbly.
Now he was looking at her as he had in the woods yesterday—with hunger in his eyes. As the music continued, she forgot about counting the beats or feeling clumsy. She matched his motions, relishing the masterful way he led her, his hands clasping hers as they circled each other. His eyes flashed green or blue depending on whether he faced the windows as they turned, and the effect was hypnotic.
Dancing with him was hypnotic. Every clasp of his hand as they came together was a pleasurable agony, every dark smile an invitation to debauchery. She could hardly catch her breath, her heart was pounding so. Surely he must hear it and think her the veriest peagoose he’d ever met, to be so flustered by a mere dance.
Suddenly, Gwyn burst into the room. “Mama, Thorn is leaving for London!”
The music ended abruptly. “What?” Aunt Lydia rose. “But why?”
Grey and Beatrice moved a respectable distance apart as Gwyn stalked to the pianoforte. “My stupid brother says he has important things to do in town. That he shan’t waste any more time around here. He’s packing up right this minute!”
“The devil he is!” Aunt Lydia cried. “That boy will be the death of me yet.” She caught Gwyn by the arm. “Come with me. He’s leaving because of you, you know. And I’ve had enough of you two squabbling. We’re going to settle this right now.”
Halfway out the door, Aunt Lydia paused to say to Beatrice and Grey, “Keep practicing! The three of us will be back in a moment.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Grey muttered. “Not even Mother can undo years of disagreement in a single moment.” He cast Beatrice a wry smile. “And I’m not sure how she expects us to dance with no music.” Calculation gleamed in his eyes. “You and I should just talk until they return.”
So he could ask more questions about Joshua and Uncle Armie to coax her into
babbling her foolish fears? No, thank you. “If I hum the music, we could continue to practice the steps.”
“I’m not sure you need more practice.” He eyed her uncertainly, as if trying to figure out her game. “You seem to have mastered the minuet well enough to pass muster.”
“Then perhaps you could teach me another dance.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Let me think.” She ran through all the dances she’d heard of until she hit on one. “How about ‘Jenny’s Market’?”
An odd look crossed his face. “‘Jenny’s Market’? Are you certain that’s one you wish to learn?”
“I’ve heard the dance is quite popular in high society. Do you know it?”
“I do indeed. Very well.”
Thank God. Now she wouldn’t have to talk about Uncle Armie with him.
Although the way he’d said, I do indeed, with a hint of suspicion, gave her pause. Because now he was gazing at her with a heat in his eyes that made her heart drop into her stomach.
Uh-oh. She might have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. And she really wasn’t sure how.
Chapter Eleven
Grey had begun to think that Beatrice was as guileless as she had seemed until she’d mentioned wanting to learn “Jenny’s Market.”
Unless . . . “How do you know about ‘Jenny’s Market’? Have you ever seen it danced?”
She sighed. “I’m afraid not.”
That explained a great deal. He walked over to close the door leading to the hall. When he caught her gaping at him, he said, “Someone seeing us dance ‘Jenny’s Market’ without music could misinterpret what we’re doing, so it’s best to keep the servants from chattering. If we were wise, we’d also practice over by the pianoforte, since we’d hear anyone enter before they turned around to spot us in the musicians’ alcove.”
“Oh, dear.” Her face fell. “Then it must be quite a scandalous dance.”
“Without music, yes, it might be seen as something scandalous. In a ballroom with other couples, it’s perfectly acceptable.”
“Can I admit something to you?” she asked.
Absolutely. “We do have a bargain about saying what we think.”
“Well then, learning that the dance is scandalous sort of . . .” She leaned close and lowered her tone to a confidential murmur. “It makes me even more eager to learn it. Though I suppose it’s wicked of me to think such a thing, let alone speak it.”
His pulse beat a rapid tattoo. “Wicked? No. Let’s just say that your grandmother was right—you are a naughty saucebox. But it happens to be something I like about you.”
Her gaze sharpened on him. “Because you want to take advantage of it.”
“I’m a man.” He shrugged. “We take advantage whenever we get the chance. Remember that, when you’re in society and some fellow who’s less of a gentleman than I tries to get you alone. But scandalous or not, ‘Jenny’s Market’ is still merely a dance. If you want to learn it, I’m happy to teach it to you.”
She seemed to consider the matter. Then she squared her shoulders and met his gaze with a certain impudence. “All right. Why not?”
His pulse did an impudent dance of its own.
Down, boy. She merely wants to dabble in the scandalous. So let her. God knows you want her to.
He led her into the musicians’ alcove. “To begin, we stand opposite each other at about arms’ length.”
With a nod, she took that position. Then she muttered a curse that sounded distinctly unladylike. “I just realized—I have no idea what tune to hum.”
“Do you know ‘Lucy May’?”
Her face lit up. “I do!”
“That will work. But hum it at a slower pace than usual, so I can instruct and you can follow without too much trouble.”
“All right.” She began to hum in a deep, throaty voice so thrilling that fire rose in him anew.
He fought to tamp it down. “First, we bow. Then we take one step toward each other . . . and one step away. Right, like that.” He held out his hands. “Next we clasp hands in a wide arc and circle around until we’re back to where we were.”
She stopped humming just long enough to say, “I’m not sure why you considered this dance so shocking.”
“We’re coming to that.” He tugged her close, apparently taking her by surprise, for her color heightened. “You lift your left hand over your head to touch your fingertips to my left hand as you align your right shoulder with my right shoulder. At the same time you place your right hand on the left side of my waist and I place my right hand in the same spot on yours.”
As the position entwined them so that their right forearms lay across each other’s stomachs and their left hands met overhead, forcing them to gaze into each other’s eyes, she stopped humming. “Oh my,” she said breathlessly.
He didn’t move, though he relished the feel of her slender belly against his arm and the widening of her eyes as her lips formed a surprised O. “Now you understand why the servants might misinterpret our . . . lesson.”
“Indeed.” With her color deepening to scarlet, she dropped her gaze from his.
God help him. That blush made everything harder. Including certain parts of his body. He would need an ice bath after this was done.
“Wh-what comes next?” she asked.
“We make two turns in this position.” But he didn’t move. When she glanced up to find him regarding her steadily, he murmured, “Are you going to hum the tune? Or shall I count it off?”
She groaned. “Of course I’ll hum. Forgive me for stopping.”
A choked laugh escaped him. “No man alive would complain about being locked in this pose with you.”
At once she started humming.
That was a different sort of torture, since he now had to move. He led them into the turn while staring into the warmth of her pretty eyes, which he wished weren’t gazing at him so greedily. If she was even aware of that.
He couldn’t stop being aware of it. Or of the sensuality of the dance. The slow swivel they made was all the more erotic because her fingers dug into his waist, probably so she could keep her balance. But he indulged in a wild fantasy that those questing fingers were sliding inside his coat . . . waistcoat . . . shirt, so he could feel them exploring every inch of his chest.
And lower.
Holy hell. It was all he could do to keep his touch steady when he really wanted to smooth his hand up her ribs and over her bodice to cover one—
“Keep turning,” he said in a guttural voice as they finished the first circuit, though his breath felt scratchy in his throat and he could hardly get the words out.
As if recognizing his difficulty, she hummed louder. Which only made him want to halt the humming with his mouth.
“Now we bring our left hands down,” he said, “clasping them together while both of us pivot to face forward, and we slide our right hands over until they meet between us where we can join them together, too. In other words, our arms should form a cross in front between us.”
It was comical to watch her expression as she tried to make sense of his instructions. After getting everything mixed up, she stopped in mid-step. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to show me that one again.”
“Of course.” He faced her once more. “Let’s return to our former position.” The one where I caress your waist and stare into your lovely face.
“Lord save me,” she muttered.
He agreed, though he doubted anything would save them from the conflagration this dance sparked between them.
As he laid his arm over the front of her waist again, her breathing grew ragged and her stomach trembled, making other parts of him catch fire . . . especially the parts that craved the touch of her hand. Which was pretty much all of them.
Best to finish the lesson quickly. So as soon as they were situated properly, he moved them into the next step by essentially forcing her hands into the position while saying, “Then slowly we turn to face f
orward as we slide our hands across—”
“Oh, yes!” she cried with relief in her voice. “I’ve got it now.”
“Good. Let’s start it once more from where we were, but with the music.”
She nodded as he shifted them backward into their former provocative position. Then she began to hum.
It was all he could do to take up his instructions at the next part. “We walk forward together one step and back one step, before we separate to circle around behind the couples and go to the end of the line.”
Stupid as it seemed, when they parted, he felt keenly the loss of her . . . though they’d only moved a few feet due to being in the alcove, and no one stood between them as would happen if other people were dancing, too.
As if drawn by an invisible thread, he approached her once more. “After we’re at the end of the line, we face each other and start the steps again in our new place. Bow, join hands, et cetera. That’s the dance in a nutshell.”
She stopped humming, looking reluctant to have reached the end. “I see.”
“Let’s go back to the beginning. This time we can practice it with the music uninterrupted, to make sure you have the steps down. What do you think, sweetheart?”
When her gaze warmed on him, he cursed himself for letting the endearment slip. Fortunately, she merely said, “Why not?”
His blood roared through his veins. They both knew this wasn’t about practicing. It was about wanting more stolen, reckless moments alone together. Even though nothing could come of it. Even though Grey knew it was insanity.
So much for keeping his wits about him. That was difficult when she was so refreshingly genuine. Truthful.
Intoxicating.
Yet he took the appropriate position once more, fully determined to make hay while the sun shone in her face.
He counted, and they bowed in time before clasping hands. The next few steps went well. She was following his lead perfectly without him having to utter a single instruction.
Project Duchess Page 11