Page 46 of His Enemy Duchess

Reaching the edge of the piazza, Thomas made a gesture to the orchestra, who immediately slowed to end the previous dance. A few couples frowned in confusion, but as Thomas guided Sophia to the center of the dance floor, they retreated so their hosts could have the attention of the entire party.

Sophia had never felt anticipation like this, anxiety trembling from the pit of her stomach to the base of her throat. Everyone was watching. She could not falter. She would not.

Thomas brought her close to his side, shaping their arms for the beginning promenade of a waltz, feeling thankful that he didn’t have to engage in a tug of war this time.

“Ready?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.

She nodded in response, and off they went, to the marveling, astonished whispers of the spectators. There was a number there who had only ever heard of a waltz through the rumor mill, and had they been in London, Thomas would not have dared to be so bold. But they were in the countryside, in his own manor—the rules were different, or so he told himself.

“One, two, three,one,” Thomas whispered to help Sophia along.

“You can stop counting out loud,” she whispered back. “I know what I am doing.”

Thomas fell silent, prepared to leap in again with the count if she faltered. He fully expected her to, if he was being honest with himself, but as they swept into the more complex part of the dance, proceeding into the dizzying spins that brought them intoxicatingly close, it seemed he had underestimated her.

She didn’t falter once.

Pietro had done his job perfectly. Sophia was following the steps with unbelievable grace, her posture elegant and straight, allowing him to lead but never falling behind.

A small wave of relief washed over him.

That’s one thing to take off my mind. Her attire is another.

However, the way the emerald-green silk moved with her like liquid, the turns and the pressure of his hand against the middle of her back revealing a more stirring silhouette, couldn’t be ignored. He didn’t want to take the gown off his mind—he wanted to take it offherentirely.

Perhaps if he took her to his study for an hour, lavished her with all the pleasure she could bear, and came back for another waltz,thatwould solve the matter that Pietro had mentioned—to convince the crowd that the two of them were utterly besotted with each other.

He was staring at a wavy lock of dark hair that had come loose from her bun, trying not to think too hard about peelingthat gown off her freckled skin and counting the precious constellations, when she whispered to command his attention.

“Thomas.”

“Don’t tell me you want to stop already,” he said, snapping out of it. “You remember the rules—no leaving the dance floor until the music is over.”

“No, no such thing.” Her bright smile disarmed him, stirring a twist of wariness in his chest. “I just wanted to tell you something, and I want you to pay attention.”

“All right,” he replied, hearing that note of caution in his voice. “Pray tell.”

What are you up to?

Sophia cleared her throat and paused appropriately. “A woman was once married to a famous mathematician, but they never had any children.” Thomas was immediately confused and intrigued by her words. “One day, she was asked why they had not procreated, and she replied with a weary sigh, ‘Why, my dear husband is a most excellent mathematician, but the trouble is, he simply cannot multiply!’”

She suppressed a giggle that split her mouth into a grin, making her nose scrunch up and her eyes shine with mirth he doubted he had seen yet.

“Was… was that a joke?” Thomas asked, befuddled.

“Of course, it was! Wasn’t it funny?”

Thomas stared at her with his mouth agape. “I… I guess so? I am not very familiar with jokes.”

“Balderdash! Everyone tells jokes. Here’s another one!” He opened his mouth to protest, but she was too fast. “A woman was once doubted about her age, so she called her lifelong companion forward in front of everyone. ‘Harold, dear,’she said,‘would you please confirm for these foolish onlookers that I am indeed forty years old?’ And Harold responded, ‘I wouldn’t doubt you, my love, for you have said so for the past ten years!’”

She giggled breathlessly, throwing her head back as they turned through the spins of the waltz, prompting him to hold her tighter as he delighted in the sight of her and the sound of her laughter. Somehow, it made her appear even more graceful than before, her back and neck now curved.

He couldn’t stop himself—he smiled in response, tickled by the atrocious joke, but more tickled by the fact thatshewas delighted by it.

A second later, he saw her gasp.

“You are smiling!” she said quietly.

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