The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,8
the hem scarcely competed with the elaborate green and red patterns that adorned the hems on other women’s gowns.
Then she spotted Mr. Daniels. She’d danced with him on multiple occasion, and she raised her hand tentatively in a wave.
He blinked and looked around.
Women weren’t supposed to gesture to men. She knew that. Still, no one else was asking her to dance, and time was of the essence. Besides, Mr. Daniels had always seemed agreeable. Perhaps he talked about pigs with unwarranted enthusiasm, seeming to never have outgrown a childhood delight in the livestock he’d spied neighbor tenants caring for, but that was hardly a reason not to marry someone.
He approached her with some trepidation, but she pasted a bright smile on her face.
“I thought you might like to dance,” she said.
He drew his forehead together. “That was going to be my line.”
Fiddle-faddle.
“Great minds think alike.” She forced herself to retain a wide, nonchalant smile, though the effort seemed curiously difficult.
Her stomach fluttered curiously.
Perhaps this is love.
She was certain she’d heard about fluttering stomachs in books. Or were those fluttering hearts? She had the dreadful sense the latter was more likely. Still, perhaps Mr. Daniels simply made her stomach flutter. Perhaps that’s what would make them unique from other couples.
The music changed, and couples formed a minuet. Mr. Daniels extended his arm to her, and she took it. He led her to a group of dancers who were forming a long line. It would be rather more convenient if a waltz were playing.
The music took on a more jovial tone, and she began to form the patterns.
“How are you?” she asked.
Mr. Daniels’ eyebrows rose, as if startled she was addressing him. “Er—fine.”
Silence ensued, then they separated to form circles with other dancers.
“Anything on your mind?” she asked when they rejoined.
“Pigs.”
“Ah. Most—er—good preoccupation.”
“You think so?” He eyed her curiously. “Most women find them dull.”
She gave him a strained smile. “They—er—seemed interesting when you described them to me last time we met.”
“Ah.”
“In truth, I didn’t find them terribly interesting,” she said, conscious she didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. There was no use beginning a marriage under a lie. She was certain of that.
He blinked, and irritation floated over his face.
“I didn’t mean to offend—” she began, but the music shifted, and they once again danced in a circle with other partners.
When they rejoined, she flashed him an apologetic smile. “I only meant I can see why you might find them interesting.”
“Because you think my mind lacks intellect?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
He pouted. “You wouldn’t be the first person to think that.”
This wasn’t going well. Still, she could hardly give up broaching the topic now, lest she spend the next few decades regretting the interaction. “In truth, there’s something else on my mind.”
He was silent.
“You’re supposed to ask me what,” she prompted.
“What?” he asked, his face still sullen.
Her heartbeat soared, but she forced herself to respond. “Marriage!”
His eyes widened.
“Specifically, marriage to you,” Portia added hastily. There was no point having a theoretical conversation on the benefits of matrimony. This was a time for action.
Mr. Daniels’ eyes widened further, and his eyebrows darted up. “You can’t be serious. Only the most desperate woman would concoct such a plan.”
“But I am,” she said quickly. “We can marry in a fortnight if we do the banns now.”
“You must be mad to think I would agree to such a plan.” For some reason, his gaze darted to her belly.
She blinked. “But I have money. And I’ll lose it if—”
He halted dancing, and other couples collided into them.
“Forgot how to dance, Daniels?” one man asked with a wink.
Mr. Daniels’s face grew purple.
Oh, no.
“Of course not.” He pointed at her, and her stomach fluttered uncomfortably again. She decided stomach fluttering was a bad thing. “Miss Tate just suggested marriage. In two weeks.”
Portia stiffened, and her skin heated, as if Mr. Daniels had casually thrown her into the greenery-adorned fireplace. Mr. Daniels had said those words very loudly.
“Good Lord,” another man said and shot a suspicious look at the woman he was dancing with, as if to assess the likelihood she might also suggest they entwine their lives together for the next half-century or so.
Females stared at her reproachfully, and Portia hurried away. Tears stung her eyes, and she forced her chin up.
“My dear.” A deep voice she recognized at once startled her. She turned toward Sir Vincent. “Would you care to dance?”
Portia didn’t want to dance. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the dancers. She