Page 57 of His Mad Duchess
Margaret tilted her head toward the far end of the room. “Hardly. We both know it is the poor violinist saving us.”
Sebastian chuckled under his breath. “He’ll take all the credit, no doubt.”
“Then perhaps we ought to thank him when we’ve finished.”
“Only if he swears never to tell how close I came to missing the turn.”
They circled again, his palm guiding her lightly, expertly, as though the shape of the dance had been written into his bones. Margaret tried to focus on the count of steps, on the bright rectangles of sunlight falling across the floor. Yet she could not ignore the sensation of being known—not by reputation but by the press of his hand and the steadiness of his frame.
“You lead as though you’ve done this too often,” she said, her voice a little unsteady.
“Too often?” His mouth curved. “Or not often enough?”
“You tell me,” she challenged, lifting her chin.
He bent slightly as they passed in a closer turn, his breath brushing her ear. “I have never rehearsed quite like this.”
Her stomach gave a treacherous flutter. She stiffened, glaring at the far window again. “Then you ought to remember it is only a rehearsal.”
“I am not likely to forget,” he said quietly.
The music that did not exist seemed to pulse between them, the beat of shoes against wood serving in its place. They crossed and turned, again and again, until Margaret’s breath came quicker, her pulse echoing with the rhythm. His hand at her waist neverfaltered, his gaze fixed with unnerving steadiness when it caught hers.
At last, she broke it, staring down at her hand resting against his shoulder. “This is duty,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Duty, yes,” he agreed, though his thumb brushed—just once, perhaps by accident—against the back of her hand. “It is remarkable what duty demands.”
Her breath caught at the faint stroke of his thumb, a touch so slight it might have been nothing at all—yet her skin burned beneath the glove as if he had seared her there. She told herself not to look up, not to meet his eyes again, but her gaze betrayed her, lifting in spite of her resolve.
His eyes were waiting. Dark, intent, searching hers in a way that made her chest tighten. The steps carried them forward, closer, until she could feel the whisper of his breath against her temple.
“You are trembling,” he said softly.
Margaret’s lips parted. “From the exertion,” she answered too quickly.
“Of course,” he murmured, though his hand at her waist tightened just enough to draw her nearer.
The measure slowed, faltered—no longer the crisp pattern of a rehearsal but something heavier, thicker, as though the danceitself had changed its nature. Margaret’s pulse pounded in her throat.
“This is dangerous,” she whispered, hardly aware she had spoken aloud.
His mouth curved, though the look in his eyes was not amused. “Then why do you not let go?”
Her hand tightened on his shoulder instead, answering for her. The air between them felt perilously thin.
Margaret caught the faint spice of his cologne, undercut with the warmth of skin and starch of linen. The scent seemed to wrap around her, unmooring her from sense. At that instant, the violin rose in a sudden swell, the bow biting deeper against the strings as if the music itself echoed the strain between them. Without thinking, she let her eyes flutter shut, as if surrendering to it.
Sebastian’s gaze caught hers, steady, unreadable, but burning in the stillness. He inclined his head, and she felt his breath stir the stray curl near her temple. The smallest turn, the barest lean, and his mouth would be at hers.
“Careful, Margaret,” he murmured, so low she almost thought she’d imagined it.
The words were warning, yet his voice betrayed a rough edge, like a man already half-undone. Her pulse leaped. She oughtto answer—she ought to laugh, retreat, say something scathing to break this, but her body betrayed her, tilting imperceptibly nearer.
His hand flexed at his side. She swore she felt the air bend toward him, felt the moment coiling tighter, inevitable. The thought of his lips, of the forbidden warmth of him, blotted out sense until nothing remained but want.
His hand lifted—hesitant at first, then sure—and the back of his fingers brushed the line of her jaw. A touch so light it might have been imagined, yet it seared, sending a shiver down her spine.
The charged silence deepened, every heartbeat a drum in her ears, until she could feel his mouth hovering, almost… almost… against hers.
