The Heart of a Duke (30 page)

Aldora’s gaze climbed up every inch of his
lean, well-muscled form. He possessed a strength and power that was
paid homage by artists and sculptors. There was nothing about him
that looked marquess-like.

He bent low at the waist. “If this dance has
not yet been claimed, would you do me the honor of joining
me?”

Valera’s gasp blended with the strum of the
orchestra at the marquess’s request.

She didn’t need to even glance at her empty
dance card to confirm this set was in fact free.

Valera placed her hand on Aldora’s arm in a
protective way.

Aldora shrugged her free. “Yes, my lord.” She
touched her fingertips to the edge of his extended elbow, and
allowed him to lead her toward the dance floor.

“
But he is not—” Valera’s
sputtering protest faded in the din of the ballroom.

The beginning strains of a waltz filled the
room just as he settled his hands on her waist. Even through the
fabric of her gown, his touch all but seared the fabric, and warmed
her skin.

She looked up at him and found his
overly-serious near obsidian eyes upon her. A nervous trill raced
along her spine. Aldora attempted to dispel the irrational fear. So
much had gone wrong for so long that she was afraid to trust this
happiness she felt.

“
What are you thinking?” he asked
in hushed undertones.

Aldora couldn’t very well confide the truth to
him. “That I am happy,” she said, settling instead for closest to
the truth.

His intent stare moved to her lips and she
thought of his kiss in the moonlit gardens. Valera’s inopportune
appearance had interrupted that precious moment. Heat fanned out in
her belly.

Unable to hold his piercing stare, Aldora
glanced around the ballroom and became aware of the voyeurs gaping
at her and the marquess. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks and she
jerked her gaze back to his.

“
Do you feel that we are being
talked about, my lord?” The loud buzz of whispers grew like the
incessant hum of a hornet’s nest that’d just crashed to the
earth.

“
I do, and I’m not.” He snapped
his jaw closed.

So he felt it too. She peeked around the room
and found her mother standing off to the side of the ballroom,
fluttering her hand wildly in front of her face, and glaring
pointedly at Aldora. Aldora frowned. Mother should be delighted
with Aldora’s dance partner, even if he hadn’t made proper
introductions and all that.

“
Did you hear me? I said, I’m
not.”

“
You’re not what?” she asked,
distracted by her mother’s disapproval. This was going to make for
a deuced uncomfortable carriage ride.

“
A lord.”

Why, Mother was going to—

Her gaze flew to his. What did he
say?

He seemed to read the confusion in her eyes.
“I said I’m not a lord.”

The music drew to a stop.

He bent low at the waist and then left her
standing there staring after him.

Not a lord?

A fluttery panic built inside her until her
heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest. Aldora tried to
make sense of his words through the loud thrumming in her ears. He
was the Marquess of St. James. Her throat tightened as she scanned
the area for an escape. What game did he play?

Then Valera was there, blessedly rescuing her
from the eyes Society had trained on her. She guided Aldora through
the crush of people and ushered her back to her mother with
effortless precision that would have made an army general
proud.

“
I don’t understand,” Aldora
whispered.

Valera frowned. “I suspect there has been a
case of mistaken identity. The man you were dancing with was
Michael Knightly, the Marquess of St. James’s younger
brother.”

No. It couldn’t be. Her heart screeched that
Valera was wrong even as her head logically pointed out that the
man who’d held her had confessed that he was no lord. It had to be!
She looked around for him, but he’d taken himself off, having
wisely escaped the gossips.

All the while she tried to sort through the
jumbling confusion that ripped through her. She focused her gaze on
her mother who stood beside Valera’s dashing husband and a slightly
familiar-looking gentleman with thick black hair and a hard jaw.
Aldora fought the panicky urge to flee. She didn’t want to deal
with the necessary matchmaking this evening. No, she wanted to take
herself off to some dark hidden corner and lick away the wounds of
having come so very close to happiness only to have herself thrust
quite forcefully back down to earth.

“
Smile,” Valera murmured at her
ear.

Aldora managed to paste a smile on her face.
“Better?”

Valera grimaced. “It will have to
do.”

Valera’s reassuring presence provided the much
needed fortitude to hold her head and return to the place alongside
her mother and the familiar stranger.

Aldora expected to see unrestricted
disapproval in her mother’s always expressive eyes. The unabashed
joy reflected in Mother’s blue eyes gave her pause. “Ahh, here you
are, my dear.”

Valera’s husband bowed and proceeded to make
the necessary introductions. “St. James, Lady Aldora Adamson. Lady
Aldora, allow me to introduce you to the Marquess of St.
James.”

The marquess’s response was lost in the loud
buzzing of her ears. Aldora clenched the fabrics of her skirts
before remembering that a sea of Society members were attuned to
their meeting.

Oh God, this was the marquess? She should be
elated. For all her attempts at meeting the young bachelor and all
her meticulous scheming, he was now before her. Valera’s words came
back to her on a rush. St. James preferred women who could play
pianoforte and embroider. Desperate to escape, Aldora dropped her
gaze to his artfully arranged cravat, but that brought his garishly
bright gold embroidered waistcoat into sharp focus until she
thought she might go blind from staring at the fabric.

“
It is a pleasure to meet you, my
lord,” she lied. It was not a pleasure. It was fortuitous and
convenient and necessary. But it was not a pleasure.

“I was just saying to His Lordship
how very good it was of you to so graciously agree to dance with
his brother.”
His brother?
Mother dropped her tone to a loud whisper. “You
know the scandal and all.”

She had…The man whose arms she’d waltzed
in…Aldora closed her eyes as a sudden wave of dizziness besieged
her, and she tried to regain composure.

Good God, Michael was the marquess’s younger
brother.

Blessedly, Valera launched into a conversation
with St. James saving Aldora from having to formulate a coherent
response.

Trying to wrap her brain around
the tide of confusion, she allowed the words to echo through the
walls of her brain.
Michael was the
Marquess of St. James’s brother.

No, Michael was the
scandalous
younger
brother, who’d been banished to the far-flung regions of Wales or
Ireland, or some area in the British Isles where he now operated an
equally scandalous business.

Aldora gave her head a shake, and alternated
her gaze among the trio of people as she tried to regain control of
her rapidly churning thoughts.

A prickle of awareness tingled along the base
of her neck, and trailed a path down her spine and she knew with a
woman’s intuition that Michael—Michael whose last name she did not
know—was studying her meeting with the marquess.

The marquess clasped her fingers in his and
raised them to his lips. She held her breath in anticipation of any
hint of her body’s awareness of him as a man. His lips, too soft
and too moist, caressed the top of her hand before she discreetly
pulled it back. “It is an honor, my lady.”

Her mother’s narrowed gaze indicated that
she’d not missed Aldora’s obvious reaction.

She squared her shoulders, hoping that he
hated this exchange as much as she did, hoping that it was as
painful for him, because there were no words to describe the pain
knifing through her insides that threatened to bring her to her
knees in this crowded hall.

“
Will you join me for the next
set?” the marquess asked.

Four pairs of eyes stared at Aldora in silent
expectation.

No!

She made a show of glancing down at the sadly
empty dance card on her wrist.

“
Yes. That would be lovely,” she
added, at her mother’s pointed glare.

The marquess held out his arm, and with all of
Society—and Michael—watching, he escorted her onto the dance floor
where couples were lining up for a quadrille.

Aldora sent small thanks to the heavens. It
wasn’t a waltz. She couldn’t bear being enfolded in the arms of
Michael’s brother. It felt sinful and wrong.

And it would feel a good deal more wrong when
she married this man. Because that hadn’t changed. She still
required a match to save her family and this man presented as the
best option for her complicated circumstances.

Her fingers touched the heart that dangled at
her neck, bitterness tasting like fire in her throat. How very
foolish she’d been. She had allowed herself to believe in the magic
of the silly charm. It was all she could do to keep from removing
the pendant and passing it on to one of her other friends, friends
who most likely still believed in the power of the gypsy’s
tale.

They took their place on opposite ends of the
line. She fell into a curtsy, and he returned the bow as the
orchestra struck up the first chords of the dance. The lively beat
breathed some life into her deflated self as they came
together.

“
I do appreciate it, you know,” he
said, before they were forced apart by the steps of the
dance.

They performed the circular movements, weaving
in and out of partners before they were brought back together.
“Appreciate what, my lord?”

Arm in arm, his hand on hers, he guided her
around. “You were dancing with my brother. I confess, many ladies
have been far less forgiving.”

Her mouth parted in surprise. Unbidden, her
eyes scanned the ballroom, searching hopelessly for Michael. He was
there. She felt his gaze upon her skin like a physical touch but he
remained out of sight, hidden from her. Aldora believed it would
have to be only a madwoman who would be able to shun Michael for
the mistakes of his youth.

Aldora was saved from responding by the steps
of the dance that separated them yet again. She’d never really
preferred the quadrille. Now she was thinking that she’d been too
harsh on the suddenly convenient dance.

They came to stop at the edge of the circle,
side by side, as the other partners performed the intricate
movements. The fabric of her satin skirts brushed the marquess’s
embroidered breeches. There was no thrilling sense of awareness at
his body pressed so close to hers, no hungering desire for things
she didn’t understand coursed through her belly. She took a moment
to study him. At six feet two inches he was taller than most
gentlemen. He did not, however, possess the same muscular strength
and lithe power of his younger brother. Her gaze dipped to his
stomach and narrowed. Padding. Why, the Marquess of St. James
padded his attributes.

It wasn’t uncommon. Quite the
opposite.

But Michael’s body exhibited pure masculinity
without need for embellishments and adornments and damn him, he’d
ruined her acceptance of other men who chose to use those foolish
fripperies.

As if feeling her stare upon him, the marqess
glanced down at her. Aldora felt color rush to her cheeks but did
not look away.

“
I saw you, you know.”

Her brow furrowed.

“
In the park,” he
clarified.

A rush of panic coursed through her as she
thought back to the day she’d first met Michael. Her hair had hung
in a mass of riotous curls about her back, and she been crawling
across the grounds. Her eyes slid closed.

“
You looked lovely,” he murmured.
“Even with your out-of-fashion day gown.”

She blinked. “Uh, thank you, my lord.” That
was almost a compliment and considering this was the man she had
settled her sights upon and she was in no means a debutante
gentlemen were clamoring over. She was too tall and too thin, and
with brown curls and brown eyes, did not fit with Society’s
preference for golden, voluptuous creatures. Then there was the
matter of her family. Panic made her heart beat painfully inside
her chest.

The set came to an end amidst a smattering of
applause from the lords and ladies on the dance floor. She met his
bow with a curtsy and then accepted the arm he held out.

Aldora touched her fingers to his jacket
sleeves.

“
I’d like to call on you, my
lady?”

“
Why?” she blurted out. She gasped
but the sound was drowned out by his laughter.