Page 31 of Matters of a Duke's Heart
“Lord Graham, this is my husband, His Grace, the Duke of Langdon. You have certainly heard of him.”
Spencer’s jaw tightened as he smiled tightly, shaking the offered hand. Of course he had been heard of, and not in the nicest of ways. Spencer had always been aware of the rumors. Wife-killer, murderer. He swallowed back the tang of bitterness and nodded politely.
“Your Grace,” Lord Graham greeted, sounding too cheerful, enough that Spencer knew it was false. “It is good to see you properly back in society. Speaking of, I believe Lady Helena is around here somewhere. You ought to ask her for a dance, if you would allow me to steal your wife in the meantime.”
“Steal me?” Felicity laughed. “Lord Graham, the last I heard my father had you in mind for my sister, Lady Daphne.”
Spencer ground his teeth at the easy, charming way Lord Graham grinned again. “Ah, as true as that is it does not mean I cannot have an honorary dance with a duchess. With His Grace’s permission, of course.” He glanced at Spencer in a way that was clear Spencer would be hard-pressed to reject the desire for the dance.
He cut a glance to Felicity, who did not look either hopeful or opposed, so he gestured to her. “It is my wife’s decision, of course.”
He didn’t mean for his use of my wife to be as possessive as it sounded, but Felicity raised a brow at it none the less. Spencer quickly turned away, muttering about hunting down Rupert. As his wife was led to the dancefloor with one of her former suitors, Spencer found his friend, who only fixed him with a bemused smile.
“Well, you look most content,” Rupert noted, smirking. “Heavens, have you tasted a sour lemon? I heard Lord Barrendon’s lemons are the most bitter. Something about the—”
“You know full well it is not about lemons,” Spencer all but growled, his eyes tracking Felicity as she swept across the dancefloor in Lord Graham’s arms.
It looked so easy—the two of them in their exchange, the way they seemed to know where the other would step and move. It is because they have danced such ways before, he thought.
“Spencer, if you frown any further I fear your scowl will be permanently carved into your face.” At that, Spencer glared at his friend, who only raised his hands in surrender. “Are you jealous, my friend?”
“I do not get jealous,” Spencer was quick to quip back. “Jealousy would imply I care about her.”
“I know,” Rupert said, giving him a knowing look. “That is why I am accusing you of it.”
After watching Felicity spin from Lord Graham to another, much older lord, Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “You did not entirely warn me she was so popular.”
“I did,” Rupert conferred. “I told you she was well-liked.”
“Not with suitors,” Spencer snapped back.
“I told you she was picky! How was I to not know you would not connect the necessary elements of the statement?”
Spencer sent his friend a withering glare, but Rupert only laughed, shaking his head. There was indeed something that had dropped into his stomach, and he hadn’t recognized it as jealousy.
But now that he was aware of it all he could see was Felicity’s smile becoming brighter as she danced with yet another former beau. For a second, like on their wedding day, Spencer haddifficulty separating Felicity from Sophia, and his chest gave a painful tug.
Soon, he couldn’t take it for much longer. Felicity was his wife, and he had not yet even danced with her.
He muttered to Rupert about being back soon and stalked over to the dancefloor where his wife danced with a man whose hair was the color of wheat, pulled into a ribbon. Yet… there was something in her face, visible only in a momentary flash.
A tight jaw, a frozen smile—she was not enjoying her dance with the man Spencer recognized. Lord Radcliffe, a viscount who was known for his endless boasting and somehow winding his way into every political and financial pie there was.
Something about the way he looked at Felicity had not only more jealousy but anger swirling through Spencer.
He stepped in to interrupt their dance, realizing Lord Radcliffe had intended to weasel his way into a second set, which would have been most inappropriate. Spencer stared down at the viscount, his brow raised.
“I will dance with my wife now, Lord Radcliffe,” he said, leaving no room for argument. His eyes did not leave Lord Radcliffe’s, daring him to meet the challenge. The viscount glared at him, reluctant to let go of Felicity’s hand. But he did eventually, fixing a too-practiced smile in her direction.
“Your Grace,” he purred. “An honor, as always.”
“Indeed, Lord Radcliffe,” she answered, but her eyes were tight, her smile not as broad as it had been. Spencer wasted no time in shouldering the man out of the way and slotting his hand against his wife’s waist.
He ignored the jolt that beat through him at their closeness and swallowed hard. Finally, they were alone, even if they were among the other couples. Somehow, the rest of the ballroom faded away as Spencer began to lead his wife through the next set.
Felicity looked at him as though she was trying to work something out.
Spencer met her questioning look with his own expectant one. “Yes?”
