“If I Were Younger, I’d Ask You to Dance,” the Duke Teased — “Who Said No?” Replied the 38-Year-Old Woman Everyone Ignored. Then the Duke Who Hadn’t Danced Since Waterloo Took Her Hand, and the Entire Ballroom Fell Silent.
PART 4
The kiss was not polite. Not tentative. It was years of forced isolation and cynical distance boiling over into a single point of contact — his mouth hard, tasting of whiskey and bitter reality. Sybil gasped against him, her hands flying to the lapels of his coat, and she did not push him away. She pulled him closer. A kiss of defiance — a rejection of every rule that had told them both they were too old, too tired, too late to feel anything at all.
It ended with a harsh intake of breath, not a sigh. Sybil pulled back first, chest heaving, her right heel striking unforgiving stone as she stumbled. Arthur’s hand shot out, gripping her elbow, steadying her before she fell.
They stood in the dark, two people who had just thrown a match into a powder keg, watching the embers catch.
She pressed the back of her gloved hand to her mouth. Her lips felt bruised. She tasted a faint metallic tang where her teeth had caught her lip.
Arthur did not look triumphant. He looked like a man who had just stepped off a ledge and had no idea if he could fly.
“We need to go inside,” he said, voice a low rasp, stepping back and dropping his hand. “Before Lady Rockford sends a footman to investigate the delay.”
“Yes.” Her own voice came out thin. “Of course.”
She turned for the French doors. Her legs felt hollow, marrow replaced with lead. If she opened that door, she was stepping back into the firing line. The kiss had been private madness. The waltz had been a public execution.
Arthur stepped up behind her, close but not touching. “Keep your chin up, Miss Trent,” he said quietly. “Do not give them the satisfaction of a retreat. You are a conqueror returning to camp. Act like it.”
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed the door open.
They did not speak as they navigated back through the corridor of tapestries and gilt mirrors. The ballroom’s noise hit them before they even reached it — the reel had resumed, but the atmosphere had soured. Eyes darted the instant they appeared. Fans snapped open. Whispers hissed through the room like steam through a cracked pipe.
Sybil found Jane near the refreshment tables, clutching a glass of warm lemonade like a shield, Lord Hembry shifting beside her out of his depth entirely.
“Jane. Get your wrap. We are leaving.”
“Aunt Sybil — what happened —”
“Everyone is saying everything, and none of it is their business.” She turned to the baron. “Lord Hembry, you’ll excuse us. The air has become exceedingly foul.”
He managed a jerky bow and stepped back so fast he nearly upended a tray of sandwiches.
Arthur took Jane’s elbow — a light, guiding touch, nothing like the grip he’d used on Sybil — and steered the trembling girl toward the exit. They collected their cloaks from a stunned footman and stepped into the freezing fog of the London street.
“My carriage is first in the queue,” Arthur said, raising a hand. The black coach with the Westford crest rolled forward, horses exhaling plumes of steam.
“That isn’t necessary, your grace. We can hire a hackney.”
“Do not be an idiot, Sybil,” he said, exhaustion creeping back into his voice. “Half the ton is watching from the windows to see if you leave in tears. You will leave in my carriage, and you will look as though you meant to all along.”
She didn’t argue further. She climbed in, pulled Jane up after her. Arthur followed, shutting the door with a sharp click that echoed in the quiet street.
The interior smelled of old leather and boot polish. Jane sat huddled in the corner, terrified into silence. Sybil sat stiff beside her. Arthur sat across, his bad knee occasionally knocking against the hem of Sybil’s gown with the sway of the wheels, and every time it happened her skin burned where the kiss had left its mark.
She had ruined herself. The thought settled cold and absolute in her stomach. Tomorrow she would not be the invisible, reliable aunt. She would be the desperate spinster who had thrown herself at a duke and vanished into the night with him.
And yet, as the carriage swung around a corner and Arthur’s boot braced against the floorboard, she could not find a single ounce of regret in herself, no matter how hard she searched.
Morning light through the cheap muslin curtains of the Colgate townhouse was entirely unforgiving. It was barely nine o’clock, and the war had already begun.
Sybil sat rigid in a high-backed chair, staring into a cooling cup of tea. Across from her, her sister Margaret paced the drawing room with the frantic energy of a cornered badger.
“Ruin,” Margaret hissed, waving a crumpled note. “Utter, unmitigated ruin. Three notes before breakfast, Sybil. Lady Culper sent a basket of lemons for Jane’s nerves, if you can believe the insult of it.”
“Lemons are expensive, Margaret. You should make a tart.”
“Do not mock me. What were you thinking? A waltz with Westford, and then vanishing into the gardens, and riding home in his carriage—”
“If Hembry is frightened off because her aunt danced a waltz, he’s too weak to breed decent hunting dogs, let alone run an estate.” Sybil stood, her patience finally breaking. “I will bear the gossip. I will return to the country. I will fade into the background. It is what I am good at.”
The iron knocker slammed three times, cutting her off. Not the hesitant rap of a morning caller. A demand.
Their maid appeared, cap askew, face white. “His grace. The Duke of Westford.”
Margaret gasped. But Arthur did not wait to be announced. He walked straight past the maid, ducking to avoid the low door frame.
He looked terrible. Same clothes as the night before, cravat gone, collar open over a tanned throat, jaw dark with stubble.
“You look terrible,” Sybil said, if only to stop her hands from shaking.
“I have spent the last seven hours sitting in my study, drinking scotch, waiting for the sun so I could come here without being accused of breaking and entering.”
Margaret made a strangled noise. “Your grace, this is highly irregular—”
“Leave us, Mrs. Colgate,” Arthur said, without raising his voice, without even looking at her.
Margaret bristled, panic warring with deference. “I will not. My sister is unmarried, and I cannot allow her to be sequestered—”
Arthur turned his head. His stare was flat and cold.
“I am not asking, madam. If you do not leave, I will purchase the mortgage on this house by noon and evict you. Now get out.”
Margaret went chalk white, looked between them, dropped the note, and fled.
Silence rushed back in. Arthur rubbed the back of his neck.
“I apologize for threatening your sister. It was a bluff. I don’t even know who holds the mortgage.”
“Thomas Reynolds holds the mortgage, and he is immune to bullying, so it’s fortunate she left.” Sybil crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are you here, Arthur?”