Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,80

earlier part of the event, though. While the Rotunda was in a state of pandemonium, Ashmont took his party through the pleasure gardens, which Cassandra hadn’t visited in ages. Hyacinth was in raptures, especially in the evening, when the place was lit like a fairyland.

An immense arrangement of lamps, thousands of them, created the armorial bearings of Poland. The fireworks, too, were splendid.

And there was dancing.

When had Cassandra last danced? Not in England, to be sure. Here, potential partners gave deGriffith’s Gorgon a wide berth. Even her first Season had been notable for the lack of partners. As her reputation grew, the few dwindled to none. These days she danced with dancing masters or at family gatherings with family members, often with her younger sisters.

Then the Duke of Darmstadt’s band began playing the “Waterloo Waltz.” She’d expected to look on, enjoying Hyacinth’s joy, but Ashmont, standing beside her, said, “We must dance, you know.”

Cassandra looked up into his beautiful face, into blue eyes sparkling like a sunlit sea in the lamplight.

She remembered the night at Almack’s, when her heart had leapt at the possibility of dancing with him. Now her heart hurt. “Must we?”

His gaze swept over the crowd about them.

“Ah, yes, for show,” she said.

“You might think that,” he said.

When they took their places in the dance area, the place seemed to grow strangely bright. He bowed. She curtseyed.

He took her right hand in his left and, in spite of their gloves, she became acutely aware. Of everything. His hand was warm and strong. The instant it clasped hers, all the old feelings, and the new ones, came wildly alive and seemed to dance inside her.

Then his right hand was at her back and she was setting her left hand on his shoulder . . . and they began to turn and turn again, and she was dizzy when they’d hardly begun.

The world about them seemed to dissolve in a fog that blanketed faces, voices, everything except the music. She and he seemed to dance in one small, sharply clear space, as though they were the only ones, and all else was part of a distant landscape. At the same time, a part of her was vividly aware of everything about them: the whirl of colors, the sparkle and flash of jewels, and the other couples who turned and turned, circles within circles.

She knew, too, because Keeffe had taught her to keep aware of her surroundings, that others were watching.

Their dance was for the onlookers, all for show.

It didn’t feel that way.

During a waltz, there was no changing partners or holding somebody—anybody—else’s hand, even briefly. No separation. One was locked in one’s partner’s arms all the while one turned and turned in circles of other dancers.

She was in his arms. The air about him was warm, and it pulsed with masculinity, a blend of scents and something less nameable that felt like power, encircling her, so that she seemed to breathe him in with every step.

It was all for show but it felt as though they’d been meant to do this for a very long time. It felt as though she’d always belonged in his arms.

It felt like happiness.

They danced more than once, and she saw Aunt Julia dancing with Lord Frederick, and Hyacinth with Humphrey Morris. Her parents, who’d come separately, were dancing, too, looking into each other’s eyes in a way that left no doubt of their attachment. It was a magical night, and it wasn’t until Cassandra was home again, preparing for bed, when she realized.

With its shaded walks and private nooks and other places where a couple might disappear for a time, Vauxhall offered countless opportunities for misbehaving.

Ashmont had not taken her to any of these places. He hadn’t taken a single liberty. He hadn’t even tried.

This is going to kill me, the Duke of Ashmont thought.

After seeing the ladies home, he did not relieve the strain by going out and getting drunk. He didn’t go to Carlotta’s or Crockford’s.

He went home.

He went on reading the book.

Esteem. Trust. Respect.

It was going to kill him, but he had to do it.

* * *

—A marriage is said to be on the tapis between the Duke of Ashmont and the eldest daughter of Lord and Lady deGriffith. In the circumstances, we are reluctant to comment on the curious rumors circulating in recent days regarding unseemly behavior on the part of this pair. We note only that the duke and his intended have enjoyed several outings under the auspices