Tall, Duke, and Dangerous (Hazards of Dukes #2) - Megan Frampton Page 0,10

slid her hand onto his shoulder with a faint smile.

“What?” he blurted.

“It’s just you’re so tall it’s a bit of a stretch.”

He grunted in reply.

The music began, and he moved, trying to recall the steps of the dance while also trying not to step on her feet. He had far more experience with dodging blows than twirling steps.

They danced in silence, him keeping his gaze steadfastly on her face—not allowing his eyes to slide lower, toward where all that golden skin gleamed in the candlelight.

“We were supposed to dance before.”

“What?” He bumped into another couple and glared at the gentleman, who quickly ensured he and his partner were out of Nash’s range.

“We were supposed to dance at my party. Not precisely my debut, since I’m far too old”—she accompanied those words with a rueful chuckle—“but the party Thaddeus gave after when—after . . .” she trailed off.

“When everything happened,” he supplied. As though those words weren’t the vaguest description and therefore actually helpful.

“Yes.” She smiled as she spoke. Perhaps the words were actually helpful. He wished words were as easy to master as punches.

If they were, he might never stop talking. Or he might even start talking. Of his own volition, not because someone spoke to him.

“But then Sebastian went and . . .” she said, shrugging.

“Mm,” he said in agreement.

Her half brother, Sebastian, had punched a gentleman in a ballroom. Something all of them would have predicted Nash doing, not Seb or Thad.

“So this is our first dance,” she finished with a bright smile. He nearly staggered at the impact, which would definitely have resulted in some squashed toes.

“Mm,” he said again.

Her smile faltered, and he wanted to growl at himself for doing whatever it was that had made that happen. He was supposed to protect her from disappointment, not cause it.

But it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. She was his best friend’s sister, which meant not only that he already cared too much about her—because he cared fiercely about the few people in his world—but also that he would not allow himself to be anything but her protector.

“Did you like your party?”

It wasn’t much of a conversation starter. First of all, it was a yes or no question. And what kind of person would possibly say no?

It was the same kind of inanity he scorned in other people: “How are you?” “Fine.”

Meaningless. What was the point of speaking if you weren’t going to say anything? Far better to do something.

“Yes.”

Right. Exactly what he had anticipated.

“I wished that it had been Sebastian hosting. Nothing against Thaddeus,” she said, nodding toward where Thaddeus stood in his usual rigid stance, “but Sebastian is why I was persuaded to do it in the first place.”

“You—you didn’t want a party?”

He thought all ladies liked parties.

She shook her head. “Not particularly. I don’t like the attention.”

They had that in common, then.

“And yes, it was a relief when”—she raised her fingers off his shoulder and waggled them vaguely—“but it wasn’t that I was longing to join Society.” She glanced down, her cheeks turning pink. “Although I do like the clothing.”

So did he. He liked her clothing a lot. The contrast of the shimmering silver fabric encasing all of that luscious golden skin.

Damn it, he needed to forget all that. His mind searched frantically for something that wouldn’t indicate where his thoughts had gone.

“What were you longing to do?”

Her gaze snapped back to his, her eyes wide in clear surprise. They had that in common as well—he was shocked he’d managed to ask a reasonable question despite being entirely distracted by her.

And then her lips curled into a faint smile and he discovered he really, really wanted to hear the answer to the question.

What were you longing to do?

So many thoughts flooded into her mind at his words—thoughts that spiraled out from one another like a fantastic pinwheel adventure. Things that were directly in contradiction to one another, as suited a walking oxymoron.

Things like study, and travel, and stay at home and redecorate everything. Things like wear all the gowns and dance all night and go to the country and tromp about in the fields and converse with cows. Things like find a purpose and be aimless.

“Uh—” she began after a moment.

“Never mind, it was a foolish question.” He sounded—wait, was he actually regretting something? Nash, of the Grunts? Who stalked through life as though he were determined to imprint his very large presence everywhere?

How could someone like him possibly regret anything? And what hope did