pounding against her ribs, ready to burst free. “Well, you’ve kept your promise. Thank you for the waltz. Now, please ask someone else to dance. Perhaps then no one will think you are singling me alone out.”
They’d danced. They were finished.
“But I am singling you out.”
She shook her head once and forced a brittle smile. “You should not say such things to me.” Such very tempting things that made her wish for the impossible.
He shook his head. “I intend to claim the next waltz of the evening.”
Her eyes went wide. “You cannot. Everyone would think . . .” Her voice faded.
“That the Duke of Hampstead is completely besotted?”
Dumbfounded, she nodded.
He leaned forward. “And that would be true.”
It could not be . . . real. Could it?
At least there would not be another waltz for a while. She took solace in that. They would not play them back-to-back. She might be new to balls, but she was well versed in the rules of Society.
“I don’t . . .”
“Understand. Clearly.” Smiling slightly, he shook his head as if she were a marvel. “Did you think I was just going to forget about the girl I spent the night with at Vauxhall?”
She nodded mutely.
He smiled almost tenderly. “Oh no. That girl and I are going to be spending a lot more time together.”
“But people will think . . .”
“And they will be right, Primrose Ainsworth. You’ve landed yourself a duke.” A look of uncertainty crossed his face. “If you want him.”
She hesitated, moistening her lips. “I don’t care about landing a duke.” That had never been her dream. “I do care . . . about you. About being with you.”
The uncertainty vanished from his face and he grinned then, looking suddenly boyish.
The orchestra at that moment started another waltz.
Before she knew it, she was swept up in Jacob’s arms for the second time this evening.
“Another waltz so soon?” she asked breathlessly.
Whispers ran along the edges of the ballroom like wildfire.
“The perks of being a duke. I had Redding arrange it. I wanted to make the most of our waltz.”
Waltzes. “People will talk. They will think you besotted—”
“With you? I am, and I’m happy for them to think so.”
Her mouth closed with a snap. She was silent for several moments as they danced, digesting that.
Some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders. Suddenly she no longer cared about the stares and whispers around them. She felt . . . happy. She felt free.
Most of all, she felt hopeful.
He’d done all this. He’d arranged all this—this entire night. For her.
This wasn’t pity or obligation.
He had wanted to see her.
He wanted to court her.
He wanted to more than court her.
“Yes,” she finally said with a true smile, nothing fake or brittle about it, stretching her lips.
He smiled back and teased, “Now, how would you feel about sneaking off onto a dark balcony with me?”
A giggle slipped free. “That sounds like very compromising behavior, and we’re already toeing the line of scandal as it is. With all eyes on us tonight, we would certainly be caught.”
Mama would likely be out there in the first five seconds, an army of witnesses in tow. Regarding this scandal, she’d be thrilled—whatever it took to get her daughter to the altar with a duke.
“Would that be so terrible?” he asked.
“To be caught in a compromising position? Er, that would prove awkward. We would not be courting anymore. We would be betrothed.” She giggled again, only this time she felt a touch nervous uttering the b-word out loud.
Honor would demand he offer for her in such a scenario, and Jacob was an honorable man.
“Would that be so terrible?” he repeated and her heart squeezed.
Her smile slipped away and she looked at him in seriousness. “I would not want to marry anyone because the rules of Society demanded it.” As far as she was concerned, that was never a reason.
He sobered then, his smile fading. “I can promise you this. I would never feel forced into marrying you, Primrose. It’s something I’d gladly do, but you’re correct. All jesting aside, scandal should not be the thing that brings us together.”
The waltz ended. With a wink, he settled her hand in the crook of his elbow. Together, they exited the dance floor and faced the world.
Do not fool yourself. Courtship is a battlefield, fraught with foes you must defeat.
You must win or perish.
—Lady Druthers’s Guide to Perfect Deportment and Etiquette
Love.
Epilogue
Three hundred and sixty-two days later . . .
Primrose’s family and friends disembarked from the