Page 35 of A Lady's Beastly Duke
“My lady.” He bowed low.
“Your Grace.” Lady Anastasia curtseyed. Her eyes were shining. “Good evening.”
“I would be greatly honoured if you would grant me the pleasure of this dance,” he stammered. He was too shy to exchange pleasantries. The soft floral scent of her was wafting into his nose and making his heartbeat race wildly, blotting out all thoughts. “The next dance?” he added swiftly, lest he find his courage deserting him.
“Of course.” She smiled at him.
“Ofcourse?” he repeated, staring at her. He had been so sure that she would refuse, or that she would come up with some excuse or other, that her affirmative reply rooted him to the ground. She grinned.
“We’d best hurry,” she said, gesturing to the dance floor. “I believe the quartet is already playing the introduction. It’s a waltz.”
“Good,” Sidney murmured. He blushed, feeling foolish. He followed her to the dance floor and took her hand in his. His other hand moved to her shoulder-blade, and he felt hot, crimson blood flush his cheeks as she stepped close.
The music began and he stepped lightly, her steps gliding and smooth as they whirled around the dance floor. It was lively,rather than stately, and they whirled and stepped and whirled.
He shut his eyes for a moment. She was extremely graceful and dancing with her felt like flying, like gliding; as swift and smooth as skating on ice and yet as lively as a song.
She is so beautiful, he thought, his heart twisting.So beautiful and lovely and graceful. I am a beast, a clumsy oaf.
His heart ached as he opened his eyes again. She had her head tipped back; eyes shut.
Perhaps she is dreaming that she is elsewhere,he thought painfully.
He gazed at her longingly and wished that he knew what she was thinking.
Chapter 13
Anastasia shut her eyes for a moment, a small smile of rapture lifting the corners of her lips. She was waltzing, floating, flying. It felt for a moment as though they were whirling across the empty air, like two eagles in a dance so beautiful that it brought tears to her eyes.
“My lady?” A small, earnest whisper made her open her eyes again.
“Yes?” She gazed up at the duke, staring into that striking green stare.
“Is all well?” he whispered. His brow furrowed with a frown; his eyes filled with concern.
Anastasia felt her own brow crease and she almost missed a step. She recovered quickly and they whirled along the edge of the ballroom.
“Yes,” she replied, feeling confused. “Yes. I am quite well.”
She could hear the music shifting, moving into the last third of the dance and she looked up into his eyes, wishing to forget that the waltz would last at most a few minutes. She wanted to dance with him all night.
He had seemed as though he was about to speak as she stared up at him, but he stopped before he had said a word. His gaze met hers and held it, and she felt her heart thumping louder than the quartet, louder than the burr of conversation around them. All that existed was his face, his eyes, and the beating of her heart.
Heat flooded up into her face and through her body and she became aware of his closeness, of the warmth of his hand on hers. She drew a breath as the strangest longing flooded her. She ached to feel the warmth of his lips on hers. The scent of him drifted to her—a mix of leather and pomade and something else that she couldn’t identify. Altogether, the mix of smells made her heart thud and somehow made that strange, urgent longing grow. She saw him lean fractionally forward and she drew a breath and held it, thinking for a second that he had felt the same and that he was going to kiss her.
Something flared in his gaze—if she had not known better, she would have thought it was fear. He straightened up and then they were slowing as the cadence changed and the waltz resolved into its closing section.
She slowed her steps, and her eyes remained locked on his, that strange longing still there. She drew a deep breath, but the sound of applause distracted her, and she realized that the other couples were politely congratulating each other on the dance and that the quartet was not playing anymore.
“Your Grace,” she stammered, dropping a low curtsey.
“My lady.” He bowed low and her heart raced as he looked up at her.
Her thoughts were blank, or they seemed to be coagulating in the strange feeling that was possessing her, the sweet, honeyed feeling that flooded her somehow slowing them on their way through her mind.
He cleared his throat. His eyes were shining, and Anastasia wondered, for a moment, if the same odd magic that was happening in her mind was happening in his as well.
“Might I offer you a glass of lemonade?” he said. His eyes were bright, but his voice sounded strange, as though his throat was half-blocked. He coughed again to clear it.
