And he found himself filling not with horror but anticipation. Good God. Was this meeting going to be terrible—or absolutely wonderful? He wasn’t certain. But she looked as if she was going to come over, grab him by the balls, and lead him in the most merry of dances.
He wasn’t certain if he wished to linger or to run, but he was a good soldier. Retreat was not his line unless necessary.
And then… Then his reverie broke, for he took note of a pamphlet in her hand, held as a gentlemen might brace his hand upon his rapier.
“I can’t,” he groaned.
“She is a force to be reckoned with,” Ben marveled, his lips twitching with amusement.
He’d never retreated before in his life. And he was not about to.
But bloody hell, all his prepared pleasantries vanished from his usually very organized brain at the sight of her blazing through his ballroom. He felt completely off foot. For she was inducing the strangest response in him. One he’d never felt in his entire life.
Will turned and faced his brothers, determined to collect himself and meet her with at least a tolerant smile. She was his guest, devil take it.
Bloody hell, he had been the leader of battalions in the face of the French. Where others faltered, he had raced ahead.
Surely, a lady should not give him such pause. And certainly not the cousin of the woman who would be his sister-in-law. He had to have a tolerable relationship with her.
His brothers were clearly choking back laughter at his dismay, and it was all he could do not to level them with crushing stares.
He was a duke. He was capable.
He would rise above their childish humor.
And just as he was about to turn and meet her with a perfectly appropriate greeting, he heard the most luxurious, deep, perfect voice call out his name.
Chapter Three
Beatrice was aware that half the ballroom was staring at her. It mattered not.
All thoughts abandoned her except one. She had made good view of enough portraits to know that dukes were not supposed to look like the Duke of Blackheath.
Dukes were stodgy, respectable; capable, certainly; determined to uphold Rule Britannia and the status quo—but they were not beautiful.
She’d yet to see a portrait of a beautiful duke.
Yet if there was one thing that Blackheath was, it was beautiful.
She stared at him agog.
The man towered, positively towered. His shoulders were broad. The beautiful cut of his coat hugged them, only emphasizing the Herculean musculature of his body. His waistcoat framed a wasp waist that went into tight breeches, which were the fashion of the day. That fawn fabric clung to thighs worthy of, dare she say, a demigod?
She swallowed at the sight of those limbs that were quite unlike the limbs of most men of the ton. They were honed to perfection. As were his arms, which even the cut of his black coat could not hide.
Surely, a gentleman should not look so, well, ready for the sort of labors that Hercules had endured?
Blackheath did, and his dark, curling hair framed his hard face, making him look strangely boyish. Yet when she looked into his eyes, something she could do now that she was but a few feet from him, there was nothing boyish in that steely glint.
Goodness, his eyes were the strangest color of blue. Not a sapphire at all, but rather an aquamarine—something icy which dared one to treat him lightly at one’s peril.
The square cut of his jaw suggested that he was quite used to taking blows upon his chin and very capable of returning verbal remarks.
She wondered if he was as capable of wit and speech as he was of elegance and beauty. It was galling the way he made her feel.
Beatrice forced herself to step forward through the thick air of the ballroom, which suddenly felt much hotter, and before she could open her mouth to continue her greeting, he thrust out that beautiful hand of his and asked, “Dance?”
It was tempting to refuse, but how could she? With so many people watching, her cousin’s happiness was at stake.