She Refused to Curtsy to the Most Feared Duke in London—But Instead of Punishing Her, He Protected Her From the Ballroom’s Cruel Whispers. Months Later, Just as They Fell in Love, One Rumor Made Her Believe He Was a Terrible Man.
PART 2
“So it is your reputation at stake,” Emily said.
“My house. My name. My reputation.”
“Then we have found common ground.”
His brow shifted, faint interest cutting through the fury. “And what is that?”
“That this entire spectacle is about you.”
A dry voice drawled behind them. “Good lord.” Lord Preston had arrived, glancing between the bolted doors and his friend’s rigid face. “You have bolted your own ballroom, James. That rather invites curiosity.”
“Miss Douglas and I have had a disagreement,” James said flatly.
Emily lifted a brow. “His grace believes a disagreement occurs whenever someone fails to obey him.”
Preston’s grin spread slowly. “I had not expected to live long enough to witness someone tell the Duke of Westfall no — and remain in the room to tell the tale.”
James turned first to Lady Beatrice. “There will be no apology demanded tonight,” he said, loud enough for the nearest guests to hear. “Miss Douglas remains my guest, and I will not have my receiving line converted into a public trial for anyone’s entertainment.”
Lady Beatrice’s mouth tightened. Emily’s surprise was harder to conceal. He could have restored his dignity by humiliating her. Instead, with one sentence, he made continuing the spectacle an act of disobedience to him rather than a defense of him. It was infuriatingly clever.
James steered Preston several paces away, out of earshot, but Emily caught the shape of the exchange in the set of James’s shoulders — a man being needled by someone who knew him too well to be afraid of him.
“Is she beautiful?” she heard Preston ask.
“That is entirely irrelevant.”
“So she is.”
The doors reopened within the hour, quietly, the way a fever breaks. Emily fully intended to enjoy what remained of the evening — she had certainly earned it. And she nearly managed it, until Casper Ingrams appeared at her elbow with his old, familiar, infuriating grin, and pulled her onto the dance floor before she could protest.
Across the room, James watched the sound of her laughter reach him before he understood he had stopped listening to Lord Ashcombe entirely.
Preston followed his gaze, and said nothing at all — which was, James discovered, infinitely worse than anything he might have said instead.
By the second dance, Lady Beatrice had already begun murmuring behind her fan to a cluster of dowagers, loud enough to carry. Of course, if a mere merchant’s daughter is permitted to insult a duke under his own roof, one wonders what nonsense will be tolerated next.
James set down his untouched champagne.
“Where,” Preston asked, alarm rising, “do you think you’re going?”
James did not answer. He crossed the ballroom floor and reached Emily’s side a single breath before Casper’s outstretched hand could close around hers.
“Miss Douglas promised me this dance.”
She had promised him nothing of the kind. And yet, when she looked up into that unblinking, unapologetic stare, some reckless instinct made her set her gloved hand in his instead of exposing the lie — and in that single choice, made without quite understanding why, the entire shape of her season quietly, irrevocably changed.