She regretted the lie, but what choice did she have? If she told the truth—that she wasn’t even gentry but merely the daughter of a carriage driver—they’d waste no time in tossing her out on her backside. Of this she was certain.
Thankfully, her appearance was serving to persuade them that she belonged, because however fantastic the gown she was wearing had looked in the dim candle glow of her room, it looked even more incredible now in the brightly lit ballroom. Heading toward the refreshment table after finishing yet another reel, Isabella was just about to pick up a glass of lemonade when a deep voice gave her pause. “You’re quite the success this evening.”
Turning slightly, she found herself gazing at a face more handsome than any she’d ever seen before. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her cheeks grow warm. “I . . . er . . .” He looked precisely like the sort of trouble her mother had always warned her to stay away from, and the fact that he’d approached her without being formally introduced to her first only confirmed this.
“Mr. Goodard at your service.” He smiled, and Isabella couldn’t help but admire his beauty. But then he looked beyond where she stood, frowned and muttered, “Blast!”
Isabella instinctively turned her head to see what had caused the outburst, only to find yet another gentleman striding toward them with quick determination. His gaze was intense, his mouth drawn tight as if ready to start a quarrel, his hair dark and slightly ruffled, and his cravat in severe danger of falling into disarray.
Isabella felt her stomach tighten. Of the two, there was no doubt that Mr. Goodard was the handsomer one, if one favored the more classical and well-polished features. But Isabella had had enough of that in the form of Mr. Roberts. She was sick of it, in fact. The man approaching, on the other hand, appeared to be everything Mr. Roberts wasn’t, and Isabella’s pulse quickened in response.
“I never would have imagined you’d stoop so low as to apply the Hampstead move—especially given the fact that I invented it,” Mr. Goodard said a bit too nonchalantly for Isabella’s liking, since the other gentleman in question looked eager to engage in an altercation.
“You were determined to have your way, so I felt the need to delay you a little.”
Mr. Goodard frowned. “At least you had the decency to pick some very agreeable ladies for your little scheme.”
The other gentleman chuckled. “We are friends, are we not?” He didn’t wait for a reply but turned to Isabella instead, bowing ever so slightly as he gazed into her eyes. Lord help her, she was in trouble. “I hope you will forgive the lack of etiquette and allow me to introduce myself. I am your host, the Duke of Kingsborough.”
The time had come for Isabella to find a chair and sit down before she collapsed on the floor in a dead faint. Before her stood not only the most perfect man she’d ever seen—a man who appeared to be everything Mr. Roberts wasn’t—but he was a duke as well, and he had bowed before her as if she’d been a princess. Heaven above, she ought to curtsy. So she did—as graciously as she could manage given the flummoxed state she was in.
Rising to her full height again, she realized that there was only one flaw to this magnificently spectacular moment—she was a nobody, and dukes did not associate with nobodies.
“Miss Smith, is it?” the Duke of Kingsborough asked as he reached for a glass of lemonade and offered it to her. “I believe my brother had the pleasure of dancing with you earlier.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The duke said nothing further, so Isabella decided to add, “I also enjoyed a conversation with your mother and sister-in-law—two very lovely ladies.”
The edge of Kingsborough’s mouth edged upward to form the beginnings of a smile. “I’m glad you think so.”
“Bloody hell.”
Isabella’s eyes widened, and Kingsborough’s face grew taut. He turned toward Mr. Goodard. “Such language has no place in a lady’s presence.”
“My apologies,” Mr. Goodard, said, taking her hand in his and placing a kiss upon the knuckles. “It’s just that I suddenly realize I’ve lost my chance.”
Isabella wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and she was afforded little time to ponder it before he took his leave and Kingsborough in turn asked her to dance. Everything from that point onward happened in a daze. It was as if she’d been drifting toward the dance floor on puffy clouds, her whole body humming with anticipation while her heart hammered against her chest and her stomach tickled.
The music started, and Isabella realized that the dance they were about to engage in was a waltz. She almost lost her nerve. She’d never danced one before, and from what she’d heard, it was the most scandalous dance there was. She couldn’t possibly go through with it. If her mother somehow found out . . . Oh, dear Lord, why on earth did she have to think of her mother at a moment like this? Her hands began to tremble and she felt ill, but then a thought struck her. “From what I understand, a lady requires permission to dance the waltz, Your Grace. Unfortunately, I have no such permission. Perhaps we could take a turn about the room instead?”
Taking her hand in his, the duke pulled her toward him. Heat swept through her body in a torrent until her mouth grew uncomfortably dry, and she found herself licking her lips. Kingsborough’s eyes widened. “Then it is fortunate that we are in the country, where people are less inclined to notice. And this is a masquerade—they may not even recognize you.”
He had her there, but she decided to ignore the point, saying instead, “But they are the same people who will flock to London for the start of the Season, are they not? Propriety and etiquette are the very backbone of the world they live in. If there is just the slightest bit of deviation they will surely notice—you cannot possibly think otherwise.”
“I never said they wouldn’t notice, merely that they would be less inclined. Besides, I don’t believe my mother invited any of Almack’s patronesses, so nobody will be the wiser until they happen upon them in another week or two, at which point our dance will be quite forgotten.”
“You are certain of this?”
The duke sighed. “Miss Smith, if I were you, I’d concentrate a bit more on enjoying the dance rather than worrying about everyone else’s opinion of you. Besides, it’s unlikely that anyone in Flemmington will care.”
Isabella gasped. Not only had she not realized she’d been twirling around the dance floor with the duke holding her firmly in place (how this was possible, she couldn’t imagine) but she also thought it a bit harsh of him to suggest that her family and friends wouldn’t care if they discovered she’d participated in an unauthorized waltz—even though they did come from Moxley instead of Flemmington, but that was beside the point.
“I can see that I’ve offended you, for which I’m sorry.” He tightened his hold on her. “I only meant that as strict as the rules of Society are, they do tend to be a bit more lax and forgiving in the country.”
“I see.” Isabella tried to relax. After all, she might as well, because it really was unlikely that her mother and Mr. Roberts would ever find out. She was there to enjoy herself, and she’d been given the opportunity to do so in the company of a duke. Surely she had to be the envy of all the other ladies present, and that thought alone was enough to make her worries slip away. Tilting her head back a little so she could look up at the duke, Isabella said, “What’s the Hampstead move?”
A slow smile snuck its way across his face while his eyes brightened with boyish mischief. “It’s a means of distraction that my very good friend Mr. Goodard performed for the first time five years ago at the Hampstead Ball—hence the name.”
“And what does it entail, if you don’t mind my asking.”
Kingsborough’s smile widened as he swept her past the orchestra. “I’m not so sure it would be wise to tell you.”
“Why ever not?”
He dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “Because it would disclose far more about my intentions toward you than I am prepared to at this point.”
A shiver raced down Isabella’s spine, all the way to the tips of her toes. The man was speaking of intentions now—toward her, no less. The sentiment was certainly flattering, not only because he was a duke but also because she liked him. She couldn’t help herself, really—not just because of his looks, which were so elementally delicious that Isabella wished she could feast her eyes on him forever, but because he didn’t seem aloof or arrogant but rather grounded instead. It was refreshing—he was refreshing—and the carefree way in which he carried himself only served to make Mr. Roberts’s neatly folded handkerchiefs and perfectly groomed hair look so much more ridiculous.
Isabella bit back a groan. She was meant to marry Mr. Roberts one day. Even if he had yet to propose, the point was clear. He was much too proper to allow himself to become a permanent fixture in her parents’ parlor without eventually doing what everyone had come to expect. All of this—the glistening ballroom and the man whose company she was presently enjoying—would have to end the instant she returned home. She was dancing with a duke, for heaven’s sake! A man so far above her on the social ladder that there was no point at all in making the wish that was starting to form in her mind.
If only . . .
“Are you all right?”
Isabella blinked. How long had she been woolgathering? “Forgive me,” she said, “my thoughts were elsewhere.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share them with me?” The smile he gave her as he spoke was of the more crooked variety, dimpling his cheeks in a way that made him look terribly roguish.
For just about the millionth time since making his acquaintance only ten minutes earlier, Isabella felt her heart flutter in her chest.
Trouble was the word that came to mind.
She knew that whatever dreams she dared entertain of a man like Kingsborough courting her would remain exactly that—a dream. As regrettable as it was, she would have to be honest if she wished to avoid heartache, or at least as honest as she could be under the circumstances. “Actually, I was wondering what my fiancé would say if he were to discover that I danced with a dashing duke this evening.” There, she’d told him about Mr. Roberts and would now be able to enjoy the rest of the evening with a clear conscience and without worrying that the duke might show more interest in her than he already had. He would do the honorable thing and walk away—she was certain of this.
But the dance had not yet ended, and rather than let her go, the duke tightened his hold on her and frowned. “Fiancé?”
“Yes.” The tone of his voice did not fill her with the confidence she’d hoped for but rather with despair. “I thought it best to inform you that I am practically engaged to a very respectable gentleman—an entrepreneur, to be exact.”
The crooked smile returned to Kingsborough’s lips. “ ‘Practically’?” Isabella had recognized her error the instant she’d spoken, but it was too late for her to take that one word back now. “Then you’re really not engaged at all, are you?”