Page 33 of Nothing Compares to the Duke
“Leaving must be his choice. My goal is to avoidadding any more men to my list of refusals if I don’t have to.”
“Are our dancers ready?” Bella’s mother didn’t wait for an answer before beginning to play. The music started with an introductory trill and then the smooth insistent rhythm of a waltz emerged.
Rhys led without a moment’s hesitation, as if he’d danced the waltz a thousand times. Bella had danced often, but she still counted the steps in her head. It calmed her and was the one way she could be certain her feet would obey. With Rhys so near, she needed all the calm she could muster. The warmth of his palm against hers and the grip of his hand at her back made her intensely aware that they were connected, moving as one. She had to trust him to lead and move them in sync.
“It bothers you what others say,” he said while he swung her around in counterpoint to the movement of Mr. Nix and Louisa, who came toward the front of the room as they moved back.
“That I’m cold and heartless?” Bella started to stumble and gripped his shoulder tighter.
He pulled her an inch closer, keeping her steady. “You’re not.”
Of course she wasn’t. He knew her too well to believe she was icy and uncaring. What he didn’t seem to understand was thathewas the reason she couldn’t bear the thought of marrying another man.
When she said nothing, his cool blue gaze bored into hers and his brow twitched upward. It was thelook he’d always given her when he was pressing her, waiting for her to answer.
“Why do you refuse them all?”
No, not that question. She wasn’t prepared to offer him that answer tonight.
Suddenly, she wanted the dance to end. He held her too close, so near that his scent filled the air. His hands scorched her where he held her and the warmth building between them made her breathless. Even the movement of the dance made her dizzy. She tried focusing on his face but all she noticed was the room whirling by, the pale faces of Hammersley and Lord Wentworth in the background, and the figure of Louisa dancing gracefully in Mr. Nix’s arms.
“Arry,” Rhys spoke her nickname tenderly, his breath fanning against her cheek. “Speak to me.”
He was taller than she was by just enough inches that she had to tip her head back when they were this close. She squeezed her hand reflexively and the muscles of his shoulders bunched and shifted.
“I need to concentrate when I dance. If I don’t, I’ll miss a step.” She was breathless now, her skin heated from exertion and the tall, broad wall of Rhys’s body moving in time with hers.
Rhys drew his hand up her back and leaned in to whisper. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
But she had. She’d fallen so hard for Rhys that she feared she’d never be able to pick herself up again. She remembered every clawing, painful step of the climb.And here she was. With the same man and the same feelings welling up inside her.
She couldn’t let it happen. She’d learned her lesson. Never again would she allow herself to fall. Another rejection from him wouldn’t hurt, it would crush her.
Chapter Eight
Bella headed for the library, both because she thought it likely she’d find her father there and because she needed to escape. She couldn’t breathe with Rhys so close. She couldn’t think practical thoughts when he was near.
And, mercy, did she need her practical mindset back.
Lamps burned low along the hallway and she noticed a warm glow coming from the half-open door of her father’s study. Drawing closer, she heard him coughing.
“Papa?”
“You’ve found me.” He glanced back at her from his favorite wingback in front of the fireplace. “Why have you left your party?”
She stepped inside and reminded him, “In fairness, you were the first to depart.”
“Shall I return?” He sounded distinctly hopeful she’d tell him not to. “Perhaps I should partner your mother for a dance.”
Her mother would probably enjoy it, but he looked so cozy with his cup of tea and a blanket across his knees that Bella wasn’t about to encourage him to return to the drawing room.
She took the chair next to his, tucking the crinoline skirts of her blue gown around her. “Are you unwell, Papa?”
He’d never admit as much to her. In their family, he was the encourager and Bella’s mother was the worrier.
“I’m well enough, my girl. And you? How are you on the first day of the three and twentieth year of Arabella?” He took a sip of tea and cast her a slanting glance. “Interesting decision to invite the duke. Strategic, I’d say.”
He’d always been able to see through her better than most. Sometimes even better than Rhys.
