Page 5 of Duke of Diamonds
She looked as though she might faint or flee. Possibly both.
He didn’t care.
He offered a bow. “Lady Fiona,” he said, his tone cool and clipped. “Might I request the honour of this dance?”
The matron—presumably the Marchioness of Holden—began to part her lips, no doubt to concoct a gentle excuse to shield her daughter from his company.
But before a word could escape her, Lady Fiona stepped forward. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said, voice even. “It would be my pleasure.”
It was not what he’d expected. Not in the slightest.
He extended his arm, and she placed her hand upon it with practiced grace. As he led her away, he could feel the gaze of the marchioness boring into his back, rigid with maternal apprehension. She looked perilously close to following after them, but decency—thankfully—seemed to prevail.
The room parted for them with the same reverent hush that might accompany royalty, or something far more terrifying. Whispers fluttered like leaves in the wake of a storm, curiosity thick in the air as they reached the edge of the dance floor.
He positioned her for the waltz, his hand settling lightly at her waist, the other clasping hers. The music began.
Their movements were in perfect step, not a falter between them, yet their silence stretched long enough to be notable. Just the way he preferred it.
And then she ruined it.
“It is quite a lovely evening, is it not?” she said, her voice pleasant and smooth, but lacking any real conviction.
He glanced down at her, one brow raised. “You do not sound nearly as enthused as your words suggest, Lady Fiona.”
A slight blush rose on her cheeks, but she held his gaze.
“You need not feel obligated to make conversation on my account,” he added, not unkindly, but with the blunt honesty he never bothered to temper. “I have no expectation of pleasantries. Nor any use for them.”
For a moment, she looked stunned, as though uncertain whether to be insulted or impressed. Then something shifted.
The softness in her expression sharpened.
“I assure you, Your Grace,” she said, her voice lifting ever so slightly, “I feel no obligation whatsoever. And if I did not know better, I should say you are not overly enthusiastic about the evening yourself.”
Her tone held the faintest edge now—a flicker of challenge dancing behind her eyes.
Well, well.Isaac arched a brow at her, the edge of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Then we are agreed, Lady Fiona,” he said smoothly. “Two unwilling participants, dancing out of sheer obligation. How romantic.”
She returned his look with a dry one of her own, the ghost of a smile flickering across her lips. “At least you are a duke,” she muttered beneath her breath, more to herself than to him, “and therefore immune to having obligations thrust upon you.”
But he heard her. And it amused him more than it should have.
If only you knew, my lady,he thought, glancing sidelong at Elaine, who stood at the edge of the ballroom looking positively triumphant. She caught his gaze and raised her fan in the faintest of salutes.
“Do not be so certain,” he said aloud, returning his attention to Lady Fiona. “Even dukes are not exempt from manipulation—particularly when sisters are involved.”
She gave a light huff of breath—was it a laugh or a sigh? He could not quite tell. Still, her posture eased ever so slightly, and for a brief moment, the dance felt less like a sentence and more like a shared reprieve.
Then the music ended, and with it, the spell.
“Craton,” came a voice like gravel coated in silk.
Isaac turned his head sharply. Every muscle in his frame went taut.
Aaron Finch, the Earl of Canterlack, stood before them, his hand extended toward Lady Fiona, his expression one of politeness so brittle it might shatter under closer inspection.
“I shall take matters from here,” Canterlack said smoothly.
