“I hope you’ll forgive me,” the duke said as he pulled Isabella toward him, placing his hand against her waist as he guided her forward to the first tunes of the waltz. A flutter of nerves settled in the pit of her stomach in response to his closeness. And the way he was looking at her . . . there was an elemental possessiveness behind his eyes that made her heart beat faster and her legs turn to jelly. Thank God he was holding onto her, for she feared that if he hadn’t been, she’d have collapsed to the floor. “As noble as his intentions might have been, Mr. Goodard was about to make a very serious mistake. I had no choice but to intervene.”
“I see,” Isabella said as he twirled her about. “Then it really is fortuitous that you were there to prevent it—particularly since I’d hate having to explain to Mr. Goodard that I’m practically engaged to someone else. I daresay it would have been detrimental to his ego, not to mention that it would in all likelihood have ruined my own reputation.”
“It’s not a laughing matter,” he said, though the corners of his lips were beginning to edge upward. “I’m being quite serious.”
“Oh, I know,” Isabella replied, smiling sweetly. “So am I.”
The duke laughed. “Miss Smith, what am I to do with you? You’re unlike any lady I’ve ever met before—so free and spirited that I cannot help but wonder . . .” He stopped himself from saying anything further, but his hold on her tightened as he led her about in a wide circle. “Tell me,” he continued. “This man you intend to marry—do you love him?”
She wanted to say yes, willed herself to do it even, for she knew that it would stop the duke from pursuing her any further. And yet the word wouldn’t come. It remained on the tip of her tongue until she realized that she could not bring herself to say it. “It’s complicated,” she said instead, averting her gaze.
“I wish to court you.” Anthony blurted out the words without thinking. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, for he hadn’t done much else but think—about Miss Smith, that was. He’d done as his mother had asked and had spoken to several of his guests—had even suffered through Lady Deerford’s detailed description of her newly acquired doll. And yet, through it all, he’d been thinking of Miss Smith—her eyes, her smile . . . the touch of her thigh beneath the palm of his hand. He’d known her for less than a day, and yet he found himself smitten, though he thought he ought to clarify his sudden statement in case she thought him in love with her. That would be ridiculous—he barely knew her. “What I mean to say is that I’d like to spend more time with you—get to know you better.”
She stared back at him from behind her mask, and he longed for nothing more than to tear it from her face so he could get a proper look at her.
“That’s impossible,” she said, breaking the silence with words he’d no desire to hear, in a voice filled with pain and regret.
“Why, Miss Smith?” He wanted to shake her and make her see that marrying someone she did not love was a terrible idea, no matter the reason for it. “Who is this man? Why do you feel yourself bound to him?”
“I cannot say,” she muttered.
“Look at me,” he said, determined more than ever to change her mind and suddenly willing to risk making a fool of himself in the bargain if that was what it would take. She was too special, too perfect, too . . . destined to be his. He felt it deep in his bones like nothing he’d ever felt before, a pure certainty that demanded he do whatever it might take to win her.
Where this notion came from, he couldn’t imagine, but it was there, as real as the fact that he was dancing with her right now. It took a moment for her to comply, but then she did, and there was pain in her eyes that tore at his heart. “I’m a duke, Miss Smith. Don’t tell me that if I come to call on you your parents will send me away. Don’t tell me that should I offer to marry you, your father will say no, all because of an understanding you might have with some other gentleman.”
The music faded and they glided to a slow halt. He bowed before her while she in return curtsied, but when he straightened himself, he noted that her eyes were glistening. Bloody hell, he’d made her cry. “Forgive me,” he muttered as he steered her toward a set of open doors at the side and toward the hallway beyond. He had to speak with her in private . . . had to make her see that she was making a mistake—one that could still be averted.
Chapter 7
“Where are we going?” he heard her ask as he pulled her along behind him.
Her voice sounded wary, and rightly so. After all, he was leading her away from the ballroom with the inappropriate intention of getting her completely alone where no one would be likely to disturb them. “In here,” he said, ushering her into a room as he swiftly closed and locked the door behind him. It was his library—his sanctuary—a place where he could just relax and be himself. Turning around, he found Miss Smith eyeing him as if he’d been a no-good pirate who’d just asked her to sail the seven seas. Not exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.
Intent on putting her at ease, he said the first thing that popped into his head. “What’s your favorite food, Miss Smith?”
He saw her frown, as if she was examining his motive for posing such an absurd question. But then her expression eased and she said, “Strawberries, Your Grace. Not baked in a pie or turned to jam, but fresh, plump, juicy strawberries.”
Anthony stared back at Miss Smith—at her lips, to be exact. Her talk of strawberries only served to make him wonder what those lovely lips of hers might taste like, and worse, how he might go about discovering it.
He watched as she walked across to one of the bookcases and gave its contents a close inspection.
“What is all this?” she asked.
Anthony shrugged. “My collection, I suppose.” He’d forgotten about it in his hurry for privacy—had intended to have it all moved upstairs to his bedroom so nobody else would see it. Not that he cared if anyone happened to think it strange that he liked turning bits of scrap into something more, but there was something personal and private about it that made him want to protect it from scrutiny. Casper was the only person outside his family who’d seen his work. He held his breath now, waiting for Miss Smith’s evaluation.
“Did you make these?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him briefly before returning her attention to an elegant lady that he’d fashioned from a crooked nail, two brass buttons, a bit of fabric and some twine. He’d had a devil of a time getting her face right, recalling how he’d had to wipe the paint away twice before it had looked just the way he’d wanted it to.
Scratching the back of his head as he stepped forward, he didn’t answer right away but watched instead as she moved on to the next figure—a dog made from bits of folded newspaper and painted black. “Yes,” he said, feeling much the same as when he’d had to make that dratted toast.
Again he found himself holding his breath, but then she turned around to face him, her eyes wide as she said on a whisper of breath, “They’re splendid.”
Splendid.
The sense of elation that buzzed through him, replacing the nervousness with warm pleasure, was heady indeed, for she had voiced her praise as though she’d been looking at a fantastic landscape painting complete with a castle, some mountains and a boat upon a lake, so vividly depicted that one might imagine stepping right into the scenery. Instead, she was merely regarding some odd bits and pieces that he’d glued, tied and pinned together to make some funny-looking characters. It was absurd really, and yet he couldn’t ignore the admiration that shone in her eyes, for it was the first time that anyone had ever looked at him quite like that—as if he’d been capable of magic.
With renewed determination, he stepped forward and took her hand in his, enjoying her sharp intake of breath and the way her pulse fluttered against his fingertips. “Who are you really?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers as he moved even closer.
She shook her head. “I cannot say,” she whispered.
“Why not?” he asked as he cupped her head with his hands, forcing her to look at him. “I won’t tell a soul if you do not wish for me to do so. Your parents will never discover that you were here, and neither will your intended, but I need to know who you are . . . the name of the woman who’s captured my interest.”
“Please stop,” she muttered as she tried to back away from him. She couldn’t go far, for the bookcase was right behind her. “Whatever it is that you wish from me is impossible. You’re a duke and I—” She clamped her mouth shut.
Anthony leaned toward her. “You’re what, Miss Smith?” he asked as his eyes searched hers for answers. There was fear there, the sort of fear that he could not begin to understand. What on earth would have her so worried?
“You will ruin everything for me,” she said, avoiding his question. “My parents are counting on me to do the right thing and yet here you are, determined to make a mess of it. I won’t let you.”
“Is your father in debt to this man? Did he perhaps lose you to him in a game of cards?” Anthony asked, the desperation he felt at her rejection filling him with anger. “Because if that is the case, then let me talk to them. I can—”
“No,” she said. One simple word that hung in the air between them, promising to tear away whatever dreams Anthony had of sharing a future with Miss Smith.
“Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t marry a man you do not care for when you and I . . .” He took a deep breath to steady himself against the onslaught of emotions that whipped through him at the thought of having to relinquish all hope. “You cannot deny that there’s something between us—something more than what is usual between two people who have only just met.”
Jaw clenching, she tilted her head backward and looked him squarely in the eye, saying, “While your company has been charming, I fear I must disappoint you, for I noticed no such thing.”
She was lying. Anthony had seen the flash of concession that had marked her features for a second before she’d managed to train them. “Is that so?” he asked as he backed her further up against the bookcase, jolting the heavy piece of furniture enough for one of his figures to fall over. Miss Smith gasped, her eyes startled and her body stiff. She would not deny them their happiness, Anthony decided. “I do believe I am about to prove you wrong.”
Capturing her head with his hands he lowered his mouth over hers and moved closer until he was pressed up against her, the faint taste of the lemonade she’d recently drunk still present upon her lips. She felt rigid against his embrace, and he half expected her to start flailing him for his unsolicited advances. But since she wasn’t hitting him yet, or even attempting to get away from him, for that matter, he decided to move ahead with his attempt at enticement and slowly ran the tip of his tongue along her bottom lip. She shivered. There could be no denying that. “Kiss me back,” he whispered as he kissed his way along her jawline and toward her ear, licking the edge of her lobe just enough to—