Page 15 of In Scandal with the Duke
He blew out a harsh breath and squeezed her fingers gently in reassurance before releasing her hand. Brandon shifted to stand beside her.
“Bette,” he began, his tone unusually serious, “a friend of mine will be speaking with you soon.”
“Who?” Elizabeth asked, her curiosity piqued by his cryptic introduction. When he remained silent, she prodded further, “Why are you acting so mysteriously?”
He let out a pained sigh. “The Duke of Basil.”
Elizabeth stiffened, her pulse quickening despite her annoyance. “Why does he need to speak with me? To insult us more? I assure you I have already plotted how to take him down should he ever approach me again!”
“Elizabeth!”
Her brother’s use of her full name signaled his growing frustration, a rare break in his usually calm demeanor. She glared back at him. “I am aghast that you are not angry at the insult dealt to our family!”
“He is my good friend,” Brandon insisted. “Please give him the chance to apologize and make amends?”
“You believe a man as arrogant as the Duke of Basil would apologize?” she countered skeptically.
“Yes. He can be cutting and very arrogant at times, but he is an honest gentleman. Two years ago, I came to England for the first time, and His Grace was one of the first people to invest in our company. He paved the way for others to follow.”
“How are you friends with him?” she challenged, her tone incredulous. “When did the connection formed evolve from business acquaintances?”
“It’s a long story,” Brandon muttered, looking away briefly.
“Well, no one is asking me to dance,” Elizabeth said pertly. “I can happily lend a listening ear.”
Brandon scowled, clearly vexed by her stubbornness and perhaps by the uncomfortable position in which he found himself. She looked away from her brother as a ripple of awareness kissed over her skin. Elizabeth’s mouth dried. Without looking, she knew it was the duke, and he was staring at her.
A lady she recognized as Lady Stephenson said quite loudly, “It’s the Duke of Basil!”
A collective gasp seemed to ripple through the room, followed by a renewed flurry of whispers. Elizabeth’s first instinct was to retreat onto the terrace balcony, but she forced herself to remain inside when several guests started to look at her and whisper behind their fans. Their gazes swarmed over her, and she felt as if ants crawled over her skin.
The duke appeared, looking devilishly handsome. His dark hair was impeccably styled, his tailored black jacket and crisp white shirt accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame. Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as he made his way directly toward her. The conversations around her dimmed, her pulse quickened, and every step he took seemed to stir the air, sending a wave of anticipation through the crowd.
“Are you certain he means to apologize?” she asked her brother, nervousness knotting inside her belly. “Why would he do this when he has nothing to gain?”
“I trust him. Promise me you will listen, Bette.”
Elizabeth nodded once, hating the sense of nervousness scything through her. What was there to be anxious about? Possibly her alarming reaction. There was a sleek, predatory grace about the duke and wild flutters swirled in her belly as she watched him. The duke stopped before her, and the room held its breath. Elizabeth couldn’t help thinking this man was the epitome of what a duke should be, his presence commanding yet enigmatic. His gaze met hers, an unreadable expression on his face that made her heart pound in a mixture of dread and an inexplicable thrill.
Elizabeth lowered into a curtsy that would make her mother beam with pride. “Your Grace.”
She was acutely aware of the many eyes now fixed on them and of the keen interest their interaction was generating.
“Miss Armstrong,” he said, his voice low and unexpectedly warm. The duke briefly lowered his head in a bow. “A pleasure to see you. The next set will be a waltz; provide me the honor of partnering with me for a dance.”
She was shocked. For a moment, she hesitated, her mind racing through the potential consequences of accepting or declining his offer. “A dance?”
His eyes were dancing with cool humor and mockery. “Yes. Unless it is promised to another.”
His unwavering stare felt almost intimate.
“I … all my dances are available, Your Grace. Why …” Elizabeth’s throat closed around the question, and she flushed.
A small smile edged his mouth. “Who else but your partner in scandal would dare ask you to dance, Miss Armstrong?”
Partner in scandal? Oh, he saw the scandal sheet!
His eyes gleamed with something almost intimidating. Then, something in that silver gaze, a flicker of genuine regard, perhaps, swayed her decision. “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice steady but soft.
