Dukes By the Dozen

She was still stunned by the calmly casual courage in him. “They’ll look askance at you for this, Beech,” she said, nodding toward the avid onlookers trying to eavesdrop upon their conversation. And she wasn’t just talking about the dance.

He smiled, unconcerned. “Let them. I have faced down the cannons of the French, my dear Pease Porridge.” He lifted her fingers to his lips. “I know how to survive.”

Her breath all but left her body. He was such a man. “I’m terribly glad you did, Beech.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Fortune favors the bold, my friend.”

“About time something did.” She let him lead her past the astonished lookers-on and was raising her right hand to take his before she realized—

“Right hand on my shoulder,” he instructed easily, as if she hadn’t nearly made an unforgivably unthinking blunder. “Left on your skirts.”

She circled her hand down to rest upon the precisely fitted coat of midnight superfine as if she had intended on doing exactly that. Beech slid his good hand into the small of her back, snugging his arm around her waist and drawing her so close she had to lean away to keep her bodice from brushing against his buttons. And then he spread his fingers so that his thumb aligned with the ladder of her spine and found its way through the subtle gather of fabric at the back of her high-waisted gown to brush against the edge of her short stays beneath.

Everything within her—every thought, every breath—stilled, suspended in time for one long, luxurious moment. And then the taut strains of the fiddles penetrated the silence, and Beech stepped forward into the deeper embrace of the dance.

She stepped back, away from the intimate interjection of his leg between her skirts, and they were dancing. The firm press of his hand in the small of her back guided her along, forward and back, side to side and around. Around and around and around, spinning into the swirl of the music, following the flow of the fiddles as if they were puppets led along by their heartstrings.

Penelope closed her mind to her doubts and fears—it was one thing to be silently unrepentant, but quite another to dance with the new Duke of Warwick with her father fuming like a chimney across the room.

She closed her eyes to the relentless stare of nosy neighbors and let the swirl of the music carry her troubles away. Let Beech lead her where he would.

Which was strange. She wasn’t the sort of girl who liked to be led. She liked to set her own course—witness her rejection of the arrangement made for her with the last Duke of Warwick. But Beech was…different. The press of his hand against the small of her back made her skin tingle with an awareness that went far deeper than the flirtation she had attempted with his brother. An awareness that was more than infatuation, more than mere physical attraction—this was an affinity for Beech, and Beech alone.

For the strength of his character. For the warmth of his embrace. For the calm surety that radiated from him like rays from the sun.

Penelope gave herself the gift of looking up at him, and was both surprised and elated to find him smiling down at her. As if he liked being with her, dancing with her, as much as she liked being with him, safe in his arms, whirling in deliriously delightful circles that would have made her dizzy if she hadn’t abandoned propriety and tethered herself to him with her arm around his neck.

It was heaven—he was heaven, this calm, assured man who looked like a glowing archangel, one of God’s warriors, armored against the sharp weapons of society with his heroism and honesty and dashing courage. Nothing could injure her while she was with him. She was free—to feel the heat of his chest seep through the intervening layers of her clothing until she was as warm as a flower in the sunshine. To feel awareness skitter across her skin until her chest began to feel tight with need. To feel the cool rush of the air on her cheeks as they twirled and twirled and twirled.

Until the fiddles drew to a long, closing note, and it was everything she could do to let go and step back. And curtsey. And breathe.

“Thank you, Beech.” Her voice sounded small, as if it came from far away. “I’d forgotten how much I loved dancing.” And how much she was going to miss it when she was sent away.

“My dear Penelope, the sentiment is entirely mutual.” He offered her his arm. “I meant what I said before. You really must consider if you won’t mar—”

“Do introduce me, Warwick.”

Penelope felt all her warm pleasure wash away like a cold rain. In front of them was Lord Robert Maynard, the same damned impertinent fellow whose earlier attentions had driven her to barricade herself in the library.

On second thought, perhaps she ought to thank him. But Maynard gave her no chance. “Introduce me so I, too, may dance with the infamous Miss Pease.”