His Duchess (His and Hers 1)

Eyes wide with astonishment, Miss Forster somehow mastered a tiny smile. “As I believe I indicated earlier, I would be honored to call upon you, Your Grace. Thank you for the invitation.”

Taviston watched as his mother gave Miss Forster a reassuring nod. Leave it to her to take advantage of this preposterous situation and coax the young lady into calling.

He glanced at Louisa Browne. Her fingers curled into fists and her smile turned ugly. His eyes returned to her as he suddenly noticed the disparity between her gown and her cousin’s. Louisa was draped in a deep green silk that almost gave her the appearance of being pretty. The dress was very fashionable and cut to perfection. He inwardly shook his head and wondered why the dreadful woman didn’t at least share her fashion knowledge, let alone her modiste, with Miss Forster. Surely two such disparate gowns could not have come from the same needle.

Rapidly running out of patience with Louisa Browne and her boorishness, Taviston thought it might be best to remove himself from her presence before his own behavior could be called into question. The sounds of the musicians warming up for a new dance gave him the chance.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Forster, would you favor me with this dance?” He stepped forward and offered his hand. Her blue eyes fixated on it as if he had six fingers.

“She would be delighted, Taviston,” Louisa replied brightly as she shoved her cousin in the small of the back, propelling the lady straight into Taviston.

He pressed his lips into a thin line to keep from bringing the uncouth woman down a peg. When Miss Forster placed her small hand in his, he steered the two of them away from their intimate assembly with more haste than was proper.

Taviston was none too fond of dancing, especially these lengthy contra dances, but right now he would have gladly participated in three or four just to escape Louisa Browne. He glanced down at Miss Forster, who had not spoken so much as a word since their departure from the group. An odd despondency shrouded her face as they lined up for the dance.

For heaven’s sakes, he had never seen a young lady so reluctant to dance with him. As the music whistled around their heads and the other couples gracefully glided down the floor, he watched a rigid paralysis overtake his partner’s body, from head to toe. What was the matter with her?

When the couple beside them finally proceeded past, Taviston reached out and lightly grasped her hand. After a brief second, he instinctively tightened his grip, not wishing to ever let her go. She must not have felt the same for she bowed her head as if concentrating on her feet. He began moving to the rhythm of the music; Miss Forster moved as well, although unfortunately nothing remotely resembling rhythm was involved on her part.

By the time they were halfway down the line she had already stepped on his toes three times. Not that this was painful, as her feet were as small and dainty as the rest of her. But in the next instant those tiny feet became tangled amongst themselves and Miss Forster fell into a headlong trip. Taviston snaked his arm out to prevent her fall and caught her around the waist. Soft breasts on his forearm and aromatic waves of lavender caused a certain unruly part of his body to tense. He was damn lucky he didn’t drop her from the shock of it all. Instead, he effortlessly swung her back into an upright position and settled her on her feet once again. Mercifully, they reached their position in the line within a few more steps.

Taviston stared across at Miss Forster, who eyed her feet as if she wished to chop them off. Two reddening ovals outlined her cheekbones.

“Miss Forster.”

She ever so slowly lifted her head, misery, but thankfully no tears, filling her eyes. “I am so sorry.”

He shook off her apology.

“Try something simpler, like a skip.”

Her eyebrows marched upward, as if to say how is that simpler? But she nodded affirmatively anyway. They promenaded around the other couples and then the dancers began moving through the line again.

Awkwardly, they made it through with only one small stumble on her part, which alas only required that he lift her hand up to help her regain her balance. He would have gladly caught her again and again, if only to touch her and experience the heady pleasure enveloping his body when he did so.

As they took their places again, he attempted to lighten her mood with conversation. “That’s an interesting gown.”

She glanced down and then back up. “I’m not sure ‘interesting’ is the word I would have chosen. I have lived in fear all evening that the staff would mistake me for a fowl to be served up at the midnight supper.”

Taviston couldn’t help it, he laughed. Exactly what he had envisioned, some rustic bird. For a brief moment she looked startled by his laughter, but then flashed him the most brilliant smile. Something tightened in his chest. Her smile gave her face beauty and passion that hadn’t been there before.

They were required to make one more pass down the line of dancers. This they did without Miss Forster tripping even once, though she did bump her hip into Taviston’s thigh three different times. He didn’t mind in the least.

Eventually the music ended and Taviston escorted her off the dance floor. He was reluctant to lose her touch, so he placed her hand in the crook of his arm and they began to walk slowly around the ballroom.

After a few minutes of silence, he sighed. “Shall I return you to Mrs. Browne?”

“I would hope you would be more kind than that, Your Grace,” she said with a weary smile.

She captivated him again with her winsomeness. Blood raced through his veins at breakneck speed. A woman shouldn’t be able to do that with just a smile. It was past time to send Miss Forster on her way.

“Then where do you propose I escort you?”

He couldn’t leave her alone in the middle of the ballroom. He was much too much of a gentleman.

“There’s Lady Smitherton over there. She’s a dear friend of mine and I’m quite sure she would love to look after me.” She didn’t appear thrilled with the idea at all. In fact, she seemed a little put out.

Taviston turned her in the direction she had indicated. Lady Smitherton was eighty if she was a day and she was a “dear friend” of hers? How odd. Come to think of it, as he had trailed her every move earlier in the evening, he couldn’t recall her conversing with any person under the age of sixty.