Page 46 of Duke of Myste
It was far too early to name what that something might be, but as Jane watched Richard instruct Mr. Wilson about the tea service, his usual precision tempered by a new gentleness in his manner, she found herself unexpectedly eager to discover what the coming days at Myste House might bring.
CHAPTER 15
“Aduchess,” Richard began, his voice carrying the measured authority of a tutor addressing a particularly stubborn pupil, “must understand that every step she takes on a ballroom floor is observed, analyzed, and discussed by those who have nothing better to occupy their time than dissecting the behavior of their betters.”
Jane stood in the center of a gigantic ballroom, afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows to illuminate the polished parquet beneath her feet.
The space felt almost intimidating in its emptiness, designed to accommodate hundreds of guests, yet currently occupied by only herself, her husband, and the heavy expectations that seemed to hover between them like the London fog.
“How reassuring,” she replied dryly, adjusting her position as Richard had instructed moments ago. “And here I had hoped that marriage might give me a respite from constant scrutiny. Silly of me, really.”
Richard’s lips twitched. Whether in amusement or irritation, Jane could not determine. Three days had passed since their arrival at his estate in Derbyshire.
“You may choose to dance with whomever you like,” he continued, circling her with the gait of a predator assessing its prey, “but you must maintain an appropriate distance. Too close and you invite speculation about improper intimacy. Too distant and you appear cold—or worse, deliberately insulting to your partner.”
“Naturally,” Jane murmured, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he contemplated his circuit. “Because heaven forbid anyone suspect that I might actually enjoy dancing rather than treating it as a diplomatic mission fraught with social landmines.”
This time, Richard’s smile was unmistakable. Jane’s heart did a most peculiar flip.
“You may refuse any invitation to dance, of course, but you should understand that such refusal will be interpreted as derision—a public slight that could have consequences far beyond a single evening’s entertainment.”
A familiar weight settled on her shoulders—a lead mantle made of responsibility.
“The weight of a duchess’s every gesture,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him. “How do you bear it? This constantawareness that every action carries meaning beyond your intention?”
Something flickered in Richard’s hazel eyes—surprise, perhaps.
“Titles carry responsibility,” he replied, though his tone had lost some of its crispness. “Status demands sacrifice. It is simply… what is.”
The phrase emerged with such practiced finality that Jane recognized it instantly. Armor—a shield against the deeper examination of the costs he had paid without choice.
She took a step closer, studying his face with the intensity of a scholar undertaking a particularly complex test.
“But how doyoumanage it, Richard? Personally, I mean. Not the Duke, but the man behind the title. Surely you must have moments when you wish to simply… be yourself without considering the consequences to your reputation or position.”
Richard’s expression shuttered so quickly that she might as well have imagined any vulnerability she thought she had glimpsed.
“The man and the Duke are indistinguishable,” he said with renewed formality, moving toward the pianoforte that occupied the corner of the ballroom. “Now, shall we practice your positions? You will need to master the proper distance for each type of dance.”
Jane recognized the deflection for what it was—a retreat behind the safe boundaries of instruction rather than risking genuine revelation. She allowed it, for now, but filed away the knowledge that somewhere beneath his ducal perfection lived a man who had been forced to surrender pieces of himself in service to expectations not of his own making.
“Very well,” she relented, moving to the center of the room as he began to play a simple melody. “Though I reserve the right to return to this conversation when you are less inclined to cower behind lessons in deportment.”
“I do not cower,” Richard protested, though he did not look up from the keys.
“Of course not, Your Grace. That would be beneath you.”
The music swelled, and Richard rose from the piano bench with fluid grace, approaching her with measured steps that somehow managed to convey both formality and something far more intimate.
“Now,” he said, extending his hand with perfect grace, “we shall demonstrate the proper distance for a waltz between a duchess and her partner.”
There was something in his tone that sent a fleeting heat of anticipation through her.
Jane placed her gloved hand in his, acutely aware of the warmth that penetrated the thin fabric as his fingers closed around hers. His other hand settled on her waist with careful propriety, yet even with the multiple layers of her gown and stays, she could feel the heat of his palm like a brand against her ribs.
“This,” he murmured, his voice dropping to accommodate their proximity, “is precisely the distance that invites no comment while maintaining proper decorum. Close enough to dance effectively, distant enough to discourage gossip.”
They began to move through the steps, and Jane found herself caught between admiration for his skill and frustration with his continued insistence on emotional distance even as their bodies moved in harmony.
