After Watching the Man Who Promised Her Forever Place a Sapphire on Another Woman’s Finger, Diana Asked the Lonely Duke for One Dance to Make Her Ex Jealous—But Before the Music Ended, He Whispered, “Marry Me.”

PART 3

The room reacted in rings.

Diana did not look at them. She fixed her eyes on the heavy velvet curtains behind the Duke of Rothwell and put one satin slipper in front of the other. She felt the shift in the air — conversations dying and restarting in rushed, muted tones as she passed, and every one of them coming back up behind her in a whisper.

She kept her chin parallel to the floor.

As she neared the terrace doors the air changed. The stifling soup of perfume gave way to the sharp, clean bite of the night, mixed with tobacco and something faintly metallic.

Rothwell was leaning against the door frame, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, watching the dancers with an expression of profound exhaustion.

She stopped two feet away.

He did not adjust his posture. He merely shifted his gaze, pinning her under a stare so heavy it made her want to step back.

She did not step back.

“Your grace.”

Her voice was steady. It surprised them both.

He looked her up and down. It was not an appraisal of her figure. It was an assessment of a threat.

“Miss Waverly.”

He knew her name. That threw her for a fraction of a second.

“I was unaware you attended such trivial gatherings.”

“I was coerced. A matter of business regarding a stubborn railway investor who refuses to take meetings in daylight.” His voice was a low, gravelly baritone. It vibrated in the small space between them. “What is your excuse?”

“I am currently serving as the evening’s entertainment.”

Rothwell took a slow sip of his drink. His grey eyes drifted over her shoulder, found the knot of people congratulating Simon and Lydia, and connected the dots with brutal speed.

“Ah.” He murmured it into the glass. “The Viscount Rexford. I heard he finally secured the Montrose shipping lines.” A pause. “It came attached to a rather tedious girl, I see.”

He looked back at her.

“And you are the collateral damage.”

He did not dress it up in polite sympathy. He stated it like a fact on a ledger.

Diana found it incredibly refreshing.

“I am,” she said. “And in about five minutes, when the orchestra plays the next waltz, this entire room is going to watch to see whether I weep or flee.”

“My money is on fleeing.” He turned back to the dancers. “You look pale enough to faint.”

“I never faint.”

He raised an eyebrow and finally gave her his full attention. The sheer intensity of it made her skin prickle.

“Then what do you want from me, Miss Waverly? I do not offer handkerchiefs, and I certainly do not offer comfort.”

“I don’t want comfort.”

“Then?”

“I want a dance.”

Silence hung between them. A patron passing behind her gave them a wide berth and shot Diana a startled look for daring to corner the Duke.

Rothwell let out a short, harsh breath that might have been a laugh.

“No.”

“One waltz,” she said, and stepped half an inch closer.

“Just one. I do not dance.”

“You have two functioning legs and a rudimentary understanding of rhythm. You are perfectly capable of dancing.”

“Capability and willingness are entirely different beasts.” He lifted the glass again. “Go and find a sympathetic cousin, Miss Waverly.”

“A sympathetic cousin makes me look pathetic.”

The desperation bled into her voice. She heard it and forced it back down, grounding herself on the cold stone of the terrace doors.

“If I dance with a pitying friend, I am the tragic victim. If I dance with you—”

“You are what?” His eyes narrowed.

“A woman who has moved on to better things.” She held his gaze. “A woman who is not crying over a Viscount because she has the attention of a duke.”

Rothwell stared at her. He did not blink. The silence stretched tight as a drawn bowstring.

“You want to use me to make a mediocre man jealous.”

It was not an accusation. It was an analysis.

“Yes.”

She did not flinch. There was no point in lying to a man like him.

“It is a transparent, childish ploy.”

“It is a highly effective, necessary tactic to salvage my social standing.” She stepped closer again. “You hate these people, your grace. I have watched you scowl at this room for the last ten minutes. You despise their whispers, their rules, their smug little hierarchies.”

A pause.

“Dance with me. And we insult every single one of them.”

Rothwell’s jaw tightened.

He looked at her — not as a woman in a silk dress. As an opponent across a chessboard. He saw the calculation in her eyes, and underneath it the sheer stubborn refusal to be broken.

The orchestra finished tuning. The conductor tapped his baton. The opening notes of a waltz drifted out through the oppressive air.

“He will hate it,” Rothwell murmured, almost to himself.

“He will be furious.”

Rothwell set his glass down on a nearby silver tray with a sharp clink. He straightened to his full height, which was considerable, and offered his left arm.

“Do not step on my boots, Miss Waverly.”

Diana placed her gloved hand on his sleeve. The muscle beneath the fine black wool was hard as iron.

“I make no promises, your grace.”

The moment they stepped out of the shadows and onto the polished oak of the dance floor, the room reacted. It was not a subtle shift. It was a physical, audible ripple — dozens of heads snapping in their direction, conversations cut off mid-sentence, the sea of pastel gowns and dark coats parting as if Rothwell carried a contagion deadlier than scandal.

Diana kept her eyes on his cravat. Her heart beat so violently she was certain he could feel it through his sleeve.

They reached the centre of the floor. He did not wait for the polite introductory bows. He placed one large, warm hand on her waist and took her right hand in his left.

His grip was not the light, barely-there touch of polite society. His hand on her waist was firm, authoritative, rooting her to the floor. His fingers engulfed hers. It was a grip that said: we are doing this, and you will not falter.

They stepped into the turn as the music swelled.

“Breathe, Miss Waverly.” He steered her smoothly around a startled couple. “If you pass out, you ruin the entire effect.”

“I told you I do not faint.”

“You are holding your breath like a woman preparing for a firing squad.”

“It feels rather like one.”

He moved with long, predatory strides that forced other couples to yield ground. He did not look at the crowd.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

She did.

“If you look at the floor, you look ashamed. If you look at the room, you look defensive. Look only at me. Let them wonder what I am saying to you.”

“What are you saying to me?”

“I am currently calculating the odds of Viscount Rexford challenging me to a duel.”

She risked a microscopic glance sideways.

Simon stood at the edge of the floor. He was not smiling. The smug, pitying look was entirely gone, replaced by a dark, ugly flush of disbelief. Lydia was tugging at his sleeve. He was not looking at her.

He was staring dead at Diana. His jaw was clamped so tight she could see the muscle jumping under the skin.

Something jagged and bright went through her chest. It did not cure the pain of his betrayal. But it gave her breath. It gave her leverage.

“He looks,” Rothwell observed, spinning her past a glaring dowager, “like a man who has just realised he threw away a diamond to pick up a rather dull rock.”

“A very wealthy rock.”

A genuine, involuntary smile touched the corner of her mouth. Rothwell saw it. Something in his harsh face shifted — not a smile, but a loosening of the severe lines around his eyes.

“You are a very pragmatic woman, Miss Waverly.”

“I am a survivor, your grace. Pragmatism is a requirement.”

They danced the rest of it in silence. The physical reality of the waltz consumed everything — the dizzying spin, the blur of candlelight, the solid, unyielding strength of him turning her hard and catching her firmly and demanding she keep up.

He did not treat her like spun glass.

And with a jolt she understood that she felt safe — not the safety of a locked room, but the safety of standing behind a fortress wall while arrows fell outside. No one in this room would dare pity her now. No one would dare say a word against her while the Duke of Rothwell held her.

The music reached its crescendo.

He slowed their steps. He did not look at the room. He was looking at her mouth, then up into her eyes, and she could see the gears turning behind those flat grey irises.

The final note of the cello dragged out, deep and resonant. The dancers stopped. Polite applause pattered around them.

Rothwell did not step back. He kept his hand firm on her waist, and the heat of his palm burned straight through her silk.

“Thank you, your grace,” she whispered, and moved to step away.

His fingers tightened, halting her retreat.

The silence around them was absolute. The entire ballroom was holding its breath, watching the Duke of Rothwell refuse to release the woman London had just finished ruining.

He leaned down. His face came within inches of hers, close enough to brush the feathers in her hair.

“You require a permanent shield,” he said.

His voice was so low it barely reached her. A dark rumble, intended for her alone.

“And I require a wife who does not bore me to death.”

Diana froze. Her blood turned to ice water, then to fire.

“I beg your pardon?”

His eyes locked onto hers, burning with cold, absolute certainty.

“Marry me.”