Page 97 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
“You think you’re better than me because they placed you in a bassinet when you were born instead of on a doorstep. It simply means you had a cozier bed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s nearly time for the final dance of the evening where I will joyously find myself wrapped in your son’s arms.” She hadn’t danced with him since their first two waltzes and needed time to compose herself before seeing him again. He was too observant by half, and she didn’t want him knowing that his mother had unsettled her.
Hearing the woman sputtering as she walked away, she did hope the duchess didn’t have an apoplectic fit. How in God’s name had Thorne turned out to have any decency about him at all?
She considered actually strolling into the gardens, but she wasn’t going to give the duchess the satisfaction of witnessing her doing something even more scandalous, so she returned to the ballroom. But all the din bombarded her. She needed someplace where she could absorb some quiet, or lacking that, since she doubted very much the orchestra was going to cease its playing, she required a few moments in solitude. Surely in this grand residence was one room where she could gather herself.
She was heading for the stairs when a gentleman, who looked to be Thorne’s age, stepped in front of her. His blond hair was perfectly styled. She could find no fault with his features but was left with the impression he considered himself more handsome than he was.
His blue eyes slowly wandered over her as though he were snipping away at the stitching of her gown to see what resided beneath. “I daresay, Thorne has excellent taste when it comes to his mistresses.”
“I’m not his mistress.”
He smiled, a hideous smile, one she wanted to slap right off his face. “His paramour, then. A tavern keeper. That puts him in the lead I think.”
She furrowed her brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“In our youth we started a game: sleeping with a variety of women. An actress, an opera singer, a shop girl. You get the gist. You’re the first tavern keeper.”
She did, but refused to believe she was on a list. “I’m a tavernowner. And as you and I have not been properly introduced—”
“The Earl of Dearwood, Miss Trewlove. Your next lover.”
A burst of laughter broke free from deep within her. “You’re daft. I promise you’ll never be my lover.”
“When he is again betrothed, he’ll release you. He’s never been one for balancing two women at once. Then you shall become mine.”
“I’ll never become yours. Now if you’ll excuse—”
She made to walk by him.
He wrapped his fingers around her left upper arm. She stilled. “Unhand me, sir.”
“Take a turn about the garden with me. When we are done, you may decide to spend the full of tonight with me rather than with him.”
Couples were waltzing over the dance floor. People were standing nearby but it was late into the night, and she suspected they’d indulged in the champagne to such an extent they were no longer paying attention to the details of their surroundings, so they weren’t noticing the inappropriate way he held her arm. Or perhaps it was the pleasant expression that never left his face, the way he could look as though he wasn’t saying ugly things to her. He’d never speak to the daughter of an earl or a duke in such a manner. But then she was neither, and he knew it. Her name told him that much, and he thought little of her because she owned a tavern. “I’ll warn you, sir, once more. Unhand me. Or I shall be forced to punch you.”
He chuckled low, darkly. “You are a feisty wench. I see why Thorne is so taken with you. I can’t wait to experience your fire when you spread your—”
Her balled fist struck quick and hard, an uppercut to his chin that sent his head flying back and him reeling, arms windmilling, into the dancers before he landed prone on the floor with a thud. Women screamed, couples scattered. The orchestra went quiet. People stared at her, stared at Dearwood.
Suddenly Thorne burst through the gathered crowd, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his eyes scouring her as though he was searching her for injury. “What happened?”
“I asked her to dance,” Dearwood announced loudly, holding his jaw, trying to shove himself to his feet, but seemingly unable to get his legs beneath him. Two gentlemen helped him up. “I merely asked her to dance.”
Thorne didn’t look at the man who claimed to be a longtime friend. He merely held her gaze. “Gillie?”
She knew, with every part of her being, he was asking her to confirm or deny Dearwood’s words, and that he would believe her over whatever nonsense the earl blurted, but she couldn’t tell him the truth, the ugly sentiments the man had uttered. She couldn’t admit to him or the gathered crowd that someone thought so lowly of her, would think her worthy of such debasement. She heard mumblings and mutterings from those standing around her, and the truth to which she finally gave voice was probably not the truth he wanted to have confirmed. “I shouldn’t have come. I don’t belong here.”
Within those few words spoken, Thorne heard a myriad of others:I don’t belong with you. You don’t belong with me. Our worlds can’t be mixed.
He had little doubt Dearwood was lying, but what proof did he have for calling the man out? And the fact she wouldn’t tell him alerted him that the blasted earl had done something more than ask her for a dance, something she feared would bring judgment upon her, not the man who deserved it.
“What the devil is going on here?” his mother asked, sweeping into the circle.
“A misunderstanding, I think,” Thorne said. He turned to Dearwood. “I suggest you leave immediately, so you can have a physician examine that jaw.”
Dearwood, to his credit, merely nodded and began walking away.
“I warned you about inviting—”
