Selina gradually shifted her attention from her uncertain feet to the other new sensations she was experiencing. The way Malcolm’s hand felt there, just above the flare of her hip. The closeness of him, from head to toe, shoulder and chest and dancing eyes and lithe legs moving through the waltz with ease. The way his fingers wrapped over hers.
Aunt Ursula was right. Waltzing was not something to be embarked upon lightly.
“There,” Malcolm said, barely breathing the word. “Now. This.”
He was right. She was dancing. As easily as though she had never given it up.
She caught a glimpse of Anthea’s eyes, round with astonishment, as Malcolm led her past the newlyweds. She heard Isobel play a single, uncharacteristic wrong note, and recover from it smoothly. She felt the warmth of the fire as they spun past it, and the cool breeze from the dying day as they crossed to the window.
All of this she saw, and heard, and felt, but did not truly take in, because she was so full of Malcolm. His strong arms, the square edges of his jaw, the light catch of breath in his throat, the rich scent of him, the lips that had kissed her earlier.
Perhaps she had not refrained from dancing to save gentlemen from falling in love with her. Perhaps she had done it so that she, herself, would not fall in love.
Or perhaps it would have been impossible to fall for anyone other than Malcolm. Not the Duke of Caversham. Not His Gorgeous Grace.
The boy who had risked his neck to impress his father in the woods. The man who saved injured dogs and danced with elderly dowagers. The duke who was so determined to win on his own merit and nothing else that he had invited his rival to listen in on the plotting Twynham voters, so that they would both receive the same advantage.
All of these were the things that Malcolm was, these and much more that she was yet to discover. Why, then, was he content to settle for merely being the shadow of his father? Why be the ghost of the Lion Duke when he could be Malcolm Locke?
And did she really want to let herself fall for a man who knew himself so little?
The music stopped. Selina breathed for the first time in what felt like an hour.
Malcolm did not let her go, as she expected. He held her still, in waltz position, his eyes locked on hers.
“Shall… shall I play again?” asked Isobel, her uncertain voice breaking the spell.
Malcolm dropped Selina’s hand and bowed. “I would dearly love to hear one of your own compositions, Lady Isobel. I have not been able to forget the tune you played the night I dined with your family.”
Isobel lowered her hands to the keys once more, her eyebrows slightly raised. “Is that the part of the evening you could not forget, Your Grace? I am surprised to hear it.”
A look passed between her and Malcolm that reminded Selina of the way the Balfour sisters all teased their brother.
“As it happens,” said Malcolm, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his cuff, “I have an excellent ear.”
As if to underline his point, a loud sneeze sounded from the hallway. Isobel cut off her playing as all eyes turned to the door. A footman entered, too bright-eyed and clear-voiced to be the sneezer.
“Sir Roderick March,” he announced.
“My goodness,” said Lady Aldershot. “I haven’t had so many visitors in months! Do show him in.”
“He will be here to see me, on business,” said Malcolm, taking a stride towards the door. George moved still more swiftly to intercept him and stopped his forward progress with a friendly hand on the shoulder.
“Let the man come into the warmth, Caversham. I’m sure he’s had a long journey.” George met Selina’s eyes behind Malcolm’s back, just long enough to impart a warning.
Sir Roderick entered the room with a handkerchief pressed to his nose. “Good evening, good evening,” he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. It was quite different to his usual tones.
And yet, all the same, it was horribly familiar.
Sir Roderick sniffled and withdrew his handkerchief. “I am sorry to intrude upon you, Lady Aldershot, especially since, as you see, I am not at all well.” He stopped to cough. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with the Duke of Caversham.”
“Roddy,” said Malcolm, with such false joviality that everyone in the room turned to him in astonishment, “don’t be a bore. I’m sure nothing can be urgent enough to tear me away from such pleasant company.”
Sir Roderick coughed again. “I’m afraid it is, Caversham. You must return to London with me at once.”
Malcolm glanced over his shoulder at Selina. Any hope that she had not immediately recognised Sir Roderick as the man behind the Twynham bribes died as he saw her face.
“Well,” he said. His throat sounded dry as a bone. “I see there’s no hope for it.” He tore his eyes from Selina with what appeared to be some difficulty, but by the time he reached Lady Aldershot he had regained his composure. “My lady. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.”
“Oh, Your Grace! It has been such a pleasure.” Dear Lady Aldershot, utterly oblivious to any tension in the air, set about summoning her servants to fetch a hot flask of something and a stack of blankets to warm the duke and his friend on their way back to London. Selina stood in perfect, frozen stillness as he bid goodbye to her aunt, her puzzled sisters, to George who shook his hand with an expression that clearly said, You’ve torn it now, Caversham.
Then he was in front of her, hat in hand, face calm save for the tick of tension in his jaw.
“Lady Selina.”
It was not that he had lied to her. Lies were only to be expected, after all; the political arena was never bloodless. He had never spoken of anything between them but
