Page 48 of Project Duchess
“You’re sister to three dukes,” Sheridan said dryly. “Trust me, you’ll have partners aplenty.” When Aunt Lydia cleared her throat, he blinked, then shot Beatrice an apologetic glance. “You too, Cousin—partners to spare, no doubt.”
She swallowed her sigh at his feeble attempt to reassure her. “I should hope so,” she said with forced gaiety. “I’ll have all ofyouto dance with, since none of you is my brother . . . and since my real brother will never darken the door of a London ballroom unless one of you holds a pistol to his head.”
Instantly she regretted her unfortunate reference to violence, but before she could amend her statement, Grey said, “That won’t be necessary. He can trust us to take care of you in any ballroom.”
His speaking look turned her blood molten in her veins.
Curse him for that. His tactics weresounfair.
With a stern glance in his direction, Aunt Lydia stood. “We should also go over how one behaves when accepting a man’s request to dance. For example, the gentleman will offer his right hand, and you will take it with your left.”
“What happens if he’s left-handed?” Beatrice asked. That had happened to her at a harvest dance, leading to a good deal of embarrassing fumbling.
“Then he won’t be allowed to dance,” Grey said in apparent seriousness.
“Grey, don’t tease her like that,” Aunt Lydia chided.
He burst into laughter. “Every gentleman at a marriage mart knows these rules, Miss Wolfe. No matter which hand the man generally uses, he must always offer his right to a lady at a dance. And you must take it in your left.”
“Because it would be quite a mess if you tried to take his right hand with your right,” Sheridan said from the settee.
Just like that she remembered the figure she and Grey had danced, with their left hands joined and their right hands, too, so that they were scandalously close for several steps. Her gaze flew to Grey, and for a second something dark, knowing, and intimate passed between them, sending a delicious shiver down her spine and makinghisgaze slide to her mouth.
She pulled hers away, before she turned into a blithering idiot under his practiced stare. “How do we behave if we wish torefusethe gentleman’s request to dance?”
“You can’t,” Gwyn grumbled. “They had this rule at the embassy in Berlin, too. Tell her what happens, Mama, if youdorefuse the fellow.”
“You have to sit out the rest of the evening’s dances,” Aunt Lydia said. “You can say you don’t intend to dance anymore, but that’s your only recourse.”
Beatrice blinked. “Even if I don’t like him? Even if he, say, insulted my brother or . . . or, I don’t know, tried to kiss me when he shouldn’t have? Even if he’s a scoundrel?”
Grey stared hard at her. “Thornis a scoundrel. But trust me, if a young woman like you gave him the cut direct on the dance floor, it wouldn’t behisreputation that suffered. He’s a duke. You’re expected to accept his invitation . . . unless he’s breaking other rules of the ballroom, like trying to have you partner him for a third set when you’ve already partnered him for two others.”
Annoyed now, Beatrice huffed out a breath. “And what blasted rule isthat?”
As Grey, Sheridan, and Gwyn burst into laughter, Aunt Lydia clearly fought a smile. “You can’t say ‘blasted,’ dear. Not anywhere.”
“However much you might wish to,” Gwyn muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” her mother asked with an eyebrow raised.
Gwyn sighed. Loudly. “Nothing, Mama.”
“That’s what I thought.” Still, Aunt Lydia’s eyes twinkled as she turned to Beatrice. “You can’t dance a third set with the same gentleman because showing such preference for one man gives people the impression that you’re engaged. Theneveryonein the ballroom will be gossiping about you.”
Beatrice sifted through the madness of what they’d said. “So, even though generally I’m supposed to accept every man’s invitation to dance, if a gentleman wishes to dance athirdset with me, I am to turn him down.”
“He won’t ask because he knows better,” Grey said. “But if he does, then yes, turn him down. Unless you want the rumormongering populace to pronounce you betrothed.”
“The truth is,” Gwyn said, “it’s better if you can avoid being put in that situation in the first place. Nothing is worse than having to dance a full set with some beady-eyed fellow with roaming hands.”
Sheridan scowled. “Whoisthis ‘beady-eyed fellow with roaming hands’?”
“It’s hypothetical,” Gwyn said. “Don’t be an arse.”
“Gwyn, you know better than to speak that word,” her mother said.
Gwyn thrust out her chin. “Forgive me for my coarse language, Sheridan. Imeantto say, ‘don’t be anutterarse.’”
