What better way to wrap up a terrific day than with an excerpt from Adele Ashworth’s new release coming this August, The Duke’s Captive. If you haven’t read our Duck Chat with Adele, you still have time to join in the fun, so be sure to check it out while you’re here.

Adele has graciously sent us the Prologue and Chapter 1 for you to enjoy today.

Here’s a quick look before the really good stuff:

As the last male heir, Ian has inherited a dukedom after the death of a distant cousin, a legitimate title he can now claim proudly. With his new title, and the enormous wealth that comes with it, he feels it’s finally time to marry and breed some respectable heirs, to at last let go of the vague memories of being held captive and drugged five years before. Widowed at twenty-three, Viola has become a self-sufficient young woman living in London and raising her son. She wants no part of her former life, especially now that she has a titled son who must be protected. More than anything, Viola’s goal now is to raise her son respectably while forgetting her past – that is until she meets Ian again and her comfortable world is shattered.When Ian receives a note informing him that Viola is out of mourning, he seeks revenge on the woman whose family changed his life five years ago – when her sisters kidnapped, drugged him, and left him chained to a wall in a dungeon for several weeks. But Ian is also falling for Viola and will go to any lengths to make her his mistress, even threatening to expose her to all society and imprison her. And although Viola’s startled to learn Ian knows many of her secrets, she has some shocking secrets of her own.

Prologue

Ian Wentworth stared out the window of his study into the dull, gray morning, the rolling hills of Stamford hidden by what remained of a nighttime fog. It wasn’t yet eight, and already he’d been awake for hours, pouring over his financial books in an attempt to dull the daggers in his mind. As usual, he lacked the concentration to get much done, but it was enough just to be sober and living. Time healed all wounds, or so it had been said.

A knock at his study door made him jump and his tea cup rattled on the saucer in his hand. He doubted he’d ever get past being startled by a simple noise, even in his own home.

“Come,” he grumbled over his shoulder.

Braetham, his butler, stepped inside the room. “Pardon, your grace, but a note has come for your by messenger.”

Ian frowned and turned. “This early?”

“It’s marked urgent,” Braetham replied, the lines on his aging face flat and noncommital. “Courier rode all night.”

His first thought was that an emergency had struck his family since his sister, Ivy, was expecting her second child within the month. Nerves on end, he placed his cup and saucer on his desktop

“I’ll take it,” he said, his hand outstretched as he crossed the floor, meeting his butler mid-room in three strides.

Braetham offered a letter sized envelope, then bowed once. “Shall I stoke the fire, your grace? It’s rather cold in here.”

He hadn’t even noticed. “Yes,” he said absentmindedly.

Ian turned and strode back to the window for better light, tearing open the envelope and removing the small piece of paper inside in one swift action.

Unfolding it, he discovered it wasn’t at all what he’d dreaded. It was worse. A single line of information, completely unexpected: She’s out of mourning.

It took him all of five seconds to react. In a matter of moments, his future had changed.

Standing tall, he stared once more out the window. “Braetham, send in another pot of tea and a hearty breakfast. I think eggs and sausage. Then tell Cummings to alert the staff at Tarrington Square that we’ll be arriving within a fortnight.”

The iron poker clattered as it fell against the grate. “Sir?”

Ian’s lips twitched at one end. It took quite a lot to surprise his longtime butler. “We’re going to London for the season,” he said, his voice but a whisper.

A staggering silence lingered. Then Braetham cleared his throat. “Of course, your grace. Tea and breakfast straightaway. Is there anything else for the moment?”

Ian shook his head vaguely. Seconds later his butler quit the room.

A mist curled up over the pasture to the east as the morning sun kissed the moisture away.

He crushed the note in his fist.

She’s out of mourning…

And now so was he.

Yes. It was time.

Chapter I

It’s so dark inside, so cold, and in his sleep he weeps. Although I wish I could, I cannot help him…

London, 1856

Her mother had always accused her of being too whimsical, not pragmatic as a lady of quality should be, but for the former Viola Bennington-Jones, those days were long behind her. Widowed only eleven months after her marriage to Lord Henry Cresswald, Baron Cheshire, she had managed to escape the horrors of her past by the birth of their son, John Henry. Widowhood allowed her a time to fall in love with her child, but now, at twenty-three, her official mourning was over and tonight she would begin to experience the world as a lady of quality should. Her closest friend, Isabella Summerland, only daughter of the Earl of Tenby, hosted excellent parties, and she could now attend them in spectacular fashion. For Viola, this season would become the debut she never had.

Of course there was more at stake than her own urge for company, or her desire for an occasional dance or tea with a dash of gossip. She needed the ease of moving in circles that would, over time, advance her son’s placement in society as she mingled with those in elite circles. True, John Henry was only four years old, but as the son of a baron, he deserved the best. Though her life as his mother might be dwelling in secret scandals well kept, she promised herself at his birth that his good future would remain free of them. Always would she be careful, doing whatever necessary to protect his reputation above all else. Even Isabella, the closest of her friends, knew very little of the memories that continued to haunt her, and that’s the way she would keep it, for the sake of her child who would one day inherit everything due him through his good title and the connections she made for him.

Smiling with a genuine excitement she hadn’t felt in years, Viola lifted a glass of champagne from a footman’s silver tray as he passed, then walked with flawless grace across the sun-drenched promenade. Spring thus far had been rather warm, and she relished the chance to be outside in it, with the scent of flowers in the air and a string quartet playing softly at the side of the balcony. This, she vowed, would be the best time of her life.

Through a gathering crowd of London’s elite, she caught sight of her hostess who now stood in the midst of a cluster of colorfully dressed ladies, all eager to catch even the most minute bit of recent society news. Isabella spied her immediately and her eyes lit up with delight. “Darling, you look lovely,” she said, scanning her up and down as she left the group and walked forward to meet her halfway. “And dressed in ruby red! Good Lord, the stuffy crones will talk.”

Viola leaned forward and kissed the air next to each of Isabella’s cheeks. “Thank you, dearest, but I don’t care.” She stood upright and took a sip of champagne. “I was so tired of wearing nasty shakes of gray, I thought I’d brighten my wardrobe. Be conspicuous and all that.”

Isabella grinned and glanced around. “Well, you’re certainly conspicuous. And if Miles Whitman sees you like this he’ll be down on one knee proposing.”

“Heaven help me.” Viola scrunched her face. “Is he here?”

Isabella almost snorted. “Of course he is. You know he never misses a party where he might woo a society wife. And everybody knows you’re out of mourning now.”

Viola had no intention of becoming the next Mrs. Anyone. Especially since her own late husband left her with a perfectly satisfactory estate and a child to inherit it. She needed nothing else in life but her son, her friends, and her painting — the private side of her life that lifted her spirits when she needed it most.

“Where’s Daphne?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder and scanning the crowd for their friend, daughter of the late Viscount Durham, granddaughter of the aging but extremely wealthy Duke of Westchester, and who, if she wasn’t at her or Isabella’s side, could usually be found in the company of an eligible gentleman. Or two. With her pedigree, she could have her choice of anyone, and she relished that knowledge. And the attention.

Isabella smirked. “Where do you think? She’s intent on charming Lady Hollister into an introduction to her nephew.”

“Ahhh…” She smiled in understanding. “This week she thinks to marry Lord Neville?”

“I suppose,” Isabella replied with a lift of one bare shoulder. “He should be here tonight, as well.”

“So… what happened to her fascination with Lord Percy?” Viola asked, almost afraid of the answer.

With a dramatic roll of her eyes, Isabella leaned in and enunciated, “Lord Percy, it seems, is intent on courting Anna Tildare this season since Daphne now seems rather bored with him.”

Viola gaped, then lifted a gloved palm to stifle a giggle. “Poor Percy.”

“Exactly what I thought.” Isabella lifted her champagne flute in mock toast. “But here’s to all the other available gentlemen who have yet to be swayed by the Lady of Horror’s large fortune and tiny teats— ”

“Isabella!”

They both laughed this time as Viola grasped her friend’s arm and pulled it down, glancing around to be sure they weren’t overheard discussing something so indelicate. They frequently called Lady Anna, daughter of the incredibly wealthy Earl of Brooksfield, Lady of Horror due to her obnoxious manner and overly imperious sense of entitlement. That she was pretty simply made it worse and particularly unfair, though it was quite true the lady had no bosom. Still, for all her conceited ways and lack of feminine curves, Anna Tildare usually managed to engage every gentleman in the room. For that reason alone, she would undoubtedly be here tonight.

“I heard the most intriguing bit of gossip, from Mother if you can believe it,” Isabella said, growing a bit cagey as she changed the subject.

“Your mother?” Lady Tenby never gossiped, and told her daughter frequently how much she abhorred the trait in others.

Isabella laced their arms together and pulled her closer as they began to walk slowly across the patio. “Well, perhaps it’s not gossip, but more of… an interesting piece of news having to do with you.”

Intrigued, Viola urged, “Go on.”

Isabella leaned in, dropping her voice to a near whisper. “I heard Mother speaking to Greeley earlier today— ”

“Your butler.”

“—and she ordered a quick change of the menu to accommodate Fairbourne.”

“Fairbourne’s coming,” she said blandly, pausing in her stride. “Does Daphne know?”

Isabella shook her head. “Not yet. And don’t you tell her, either. I don’t want her leaving before the dancing starts.”

Lucas Wolffe, Duke of Fairbourne was well known in London circles and had, though the years, attended several of Lady Tenby’s events. Viola had met him once just after her marriage, and remembered him as a handsome bachelor with a shadowed past and untold riches that made unmarried ladies swoon with the standard blend of shyness and calculation. Every mama in the land wanted him for a son-in-law, so it came as no surprise that he’d be invited this night, which Daphne would probably suspect anyway. But although Viola didn’t know the man well, they were all perfectly aware that, despite the lack of details, a feud between Daphne’s brother, Justin Marley, Viscount Durham, and the Duke of Fairbourne still remained strong and bitter. If they both had to be at the same party, Daphne would certainly want to avoid him.

“So, what has Lord Fairbourne’s taste in food have to do with me?” she asked after a moment, returning to the original topic.

“It’s not about the food, Vi.” The corners of Isabella’s mouth tipped up a fraction. “He’s bringing a friend this evening. An art collector of considerable wealth. Or so Mother said.”

A slice of apprehension coursed through her, though Viola had trained herself these last few years to hide such fear well inside an elegant demeanor. Instead of reacting, she sighed through a gentle smile. “That’s it? That’s the gossip?”

Isabella bit her lower lip, gazing at her askance. “He must be an important person, don’t you think, to be escorted by Fairbourne? It’s possible he’s even heard of you and is, in fact, coming here to meet you, though of course I couldn’t ask mother his name. I’d be chided for eavesdropping.”

Viola took another sip of champagne, her eyes once again grazing over the growing party before her. She noticed several people she knew, others she didn’t, and almost nobody paid any particular attention to her arrival beyond the expected formality. But she’d learned to be cautious nonetheless.

Even now she carried a fear that she would be discovered as the legendary erotic artist Victor Bartlett-James, a fear well founded, though usually without warrant since that short element of her past had long since been retired. Nobody on earth knew she and Victor Bartlett-James were one and the same, save her highly paid solicitor who’d been the man to place her work at auction. When her husband died, so did Victor, and that’s when she began to develop a far more acceptable avenue for her talent, and an exemplary name for herself as Lady Viola, Baroness Cheshire, one of England’s finest painters of still life and formal portraits for the nobility. Still, she couldn’t brush aside the notion that she’d eventually discovered, exposed as a fraud, and worse, ruined socially for being the infamous artist of nude men and women posed in various positions of ecstacy. And she would never, ever forget that such ruination was a danger to her son. Always would she be careful, doing whatever necessary to protect his reputation above all else.

“Don’t look at everybody so suspiciously,” Isabella murmured, demanding her attention once more. “He’s not here yet.”

She glanced back at her friend. “How do you know if you don’t know who he is?”

“Because,” Isabella stressed with wide eyes, “if he’s with Fairbourne, you can be certain Mother will let us know the moment they arrive so we can begin the appropriate flirtations.”

Viola grinned at that truth and in a sweeping motion, interlocked her arm with Isabella’s once more, turning them back toward the party. “Then let’s bask in the evening before we’re forced to flirt with arrogant dandies who make our teeth hurt.”

For the next several hours, she tried very hard to ignore a certain lingering uneasiness and enjoy herself. The mood of the celebration delighted her, and because she was finally able to be free of the rigidity of mourning, she relished each bit of gossip, each person introduced to her, the food and champagne, and at last, by early evening, the dancing as the gathering moved inside Lord Tenby’s luxuriously decorated ballroom.

Viola hadn’t danced in years. Since the night of the masquerade ball in Winter Garden five years ago, the night her life changed forever, she’d danced only once, at her small wedding. Soon thereafter she’d gone into confinement, and not long after her son was born, her husband caught pneumonia and died suddenly. It had been a most shocking year in so many ways, but keeping their estate running and raising her child had been exhausting; the restrictions of mourning depressing. Now she could dance, and even her two waltzes with Miles Whitman were enjoyable. She truly wished he’d keep his eyes on her face rather than her bosom when he spoke to her, but she supposed all men had such a natural propensity. Tonight she vowed not to care.

And then at five minutes to nine, her comfortable life shattered.

Viola stood near the buffet table, sipping her third glass of champagne and feeling marvelously lightheaded, Daphne and Isabella beside her as the three of them scrutinized the crowd for morsels more delectable than those on their plates.

“I see Lady Anna is flirting as usual,” Daphne said with disgust, licking a dollop of sweet cream off a teaspoon.

“And with Seton, no less.” Isabella blew out a quick puff of air, lifting a thick slice of chocolate cake from the sideboard. “I don’t know where she gets the idea every gentleman wants her hand.”

Viola snorted. “Knowing Lord Seton’s reputation, I don’t think it’s her hand he’s after.”

Isabella and Daphne giggled — then stopped abruptly when Lady Tenby came into view as she strode quickly toward them, her carriage erect, her flustered face nearly as pink as her wide, flounced gown.

“For heaven’s sake, stand up strait, Isabella,” she scolded in a low voice as she approached her daughter’s side. “There are numerous titled gentlemen in attendance, and no gentleman of such high quality wants to dance with a lady who slouches.”

Isabella leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “We were wondering where you were, Mother. Viola and Daphne were only just commenting on your salmon pastries. They enjoyed them, but I think there’s a bit too much dill in the cream tonight.”

Viola lifted her champagne glass to her lips to choke down a laugh, noticing Daphne do the same. Nobody had more ability to invent stories, to lie for her own amusement, than Isabella. Were she not well-born, she would have been an actress.

Lady Tenby sighed in affectionate annoyance. “We all know there are no salmon and dill pastries on the menu, Isabella.”

Isabella’s eyes lit up. “Oh. Well then I’m thoroughly confused.” She glanced at Daphne, then down to her plate. “What have we been eating?”

“Hopefully very little. Now put that down and stop the gossiping,” Lady Tenby carried on, exasperated as she patted her upswept gray hair. “You girls shouldn’t be spending so much time at the buffet table anyway. You’ll never find husbands if you don’t keep your trim figures.”

Her daughter complied by placing her yet untouched cake back on the sideboard. “Viola has already experienced the joys of marriage, Mother,” she said with false sweetness. “I don’t think she needs or wants another husband.”

“Nonsense. Joy has nothing to do with it,” the older woman huffed. “All ladies of good breeding need husbands, including young widows. Now stop the unbecoming chatter and go, all of you. Mingle.”

With that pronouncement, Lady Tenby straightened, turned, and disappeared into the ever-growing throng of inebriated but apparently worthy nobles in need of wives.

“She exhausts me,” Isabella said, raising her fan and swishing it in front of her.

“Mothers always do,” Daphne replied through a groan.

Viola smiled. “When you two become mothers, you’ll understand. We want nothing but the best for our children.”

Isabella scoffed. “You have a son.”

“And he’s four years old and titled,” Daphne chimed in as if that explained everything.

Viola rubbed the back of her neck, feeling tension rise again, as it always did when she worried about her son and his future. The Duke of Fairbourne had probably already arrived, without ceremony as was his nature, which meant his friend roamed the ballroom as well. Most of her recent artwork wouldn’t be considered the collectable kind, though if this particular gentleman wanted his garden painted, she would be the one to contact. What made her apprehensive, she supposed, was his calling himself a collector of art. Most of her original V. Bartlett-James artwork had been sold to gentlemen collectors.

“Oh, good heavens, who is that?” Daphne asked excitedly, cutting into her thoughts as she pulled on her sleeve.

Viola turned toward the dance floor, seeing nothing but a scurry of colorful skirts and bobbing heads, hearing the usual blur of conversation and outbursts of laughter intermixed with a perfectly played Bach Minuet in G.

“Who is who?” Isabella asked, raising up on her tiptoes to try to get a better view.

“Fairbourne?” Viola offered.

Daphne shook her head. “No, someone else. Someone much more attractive. But— he’s disappeared now.”

“Nobody is more attractive than Fairbourne,” Isabella said forcefully.

Suddenly Daphne stiffened, lifted her chin a fraction, and said flatly, “I was wrong. It is him.”

“And he’s coming this way,” Viola added, catching her first glimpse of the man’s magnificent stature striding easily around lingering couples who parted automatically for him.

“He is so handsome,” Isabella whispered through a sigh.

Daphne’s said nothing to that, even though still yards away the undeniably handsome duke stared directly at her for a long, intimidating moment.

Abruptly, Daphne cleared her throat and turned. Brightly, she said, “Excuse me, dears, but since I refuse to cross paths with the deplorable duke, I think I’ll look for Lord Neville. I believe it’s time for our second set.”

With that she lifted her skirts and slipped around the buffet table, head held high, her dark curls bouncing with every forceful step as she disappeared into the crowd.

“When will their ridiculous feuding end?” Isabella asked seconds later, brows pinched as she stared after her.

Viola shook her head minutely. “She’s protecting Fairbourne. Her brother would call him out if the man so much as requested a dance.”

“Lady Isabella, and Lady… Cheshire, is it not?”

She flipped around, dazed for a second or two as Lucas Wolffe, tall and domineering, stood directly in front of her, acknowledging her in a deep, cool voice.

“Your grace,” Isabella said at once, breaking the spell first with a proper curtsey.

Viola automatically followed with the same, lowering her body gracefully as she tipped her head down in respect, her heartbeat quickening as it always did when she found herself in the company of someone so important. And then past and present collided in swift, brutal force when, as she pulled herself upright and raised her lashes, Fairbourne moved to his left to offer full view of the man standing behind him.

Oh, my God…

She blinked, instantly spellbound by a new and vivid unreality.

“Ladies, may I present to you Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford, Duke of Chatwin.”

The room began to spin. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford…

He’s found me.

Isabella curtsied again, mumbled something. He nodded brusquely in response, then slowly turned his attention to her.

Those eyes… Ian’s eyes. Pleading…

Run!

She couldn’t move. Their gazes locked, and for a endless moment time stopped, if only between them. History suddenly became now, their shared memories, both distasteful and passionate, fearful and vibrant, passing intimately between them in a heartbeat.

Viola stumbled back a step; her champagne glass fell from her fingertips to shatter on the marble floor at her feet. And still, she couldn’t take her gaze from his face. That beautiful, expressive face, so changed. Perfected in time.

“Viola?”

Footmen scattered around her to quickly sweep up the glass and pale liquid that pooled at the hem of her gown; others in their vicinity backed up to make room. The bluster of sudden activity jarred her and she blinked quickly, glancing down, bewildered.

“I— I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded clipped, hollow.

Isabella wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right? You look ready to faint.”

“No, I’m— I’m fine. Really.” She tried to lick her lips though her tongue felt thick and dry. “I’m just— hot.”

Concerned, Isabella opened her fan. “Take this. And sit. Catch your breath.”

Fairbourne chuckled, interrupting her disorientation as he reached out and grasped her elbow, helping her into a chair a footman placed beside the sidebar. She looked at him, attempting to draw a full inhale as she fanned herself without thought. “Thank you. I— I apologize, your grace.”

“Not at all, I’m very flattered,” he returned in a good natured drawl. “It’s not often I have such an affect on a lady.”

She tried to smile— then shot a glace at the very real cause of her turmoil.

He stared down at her, his sharp gaze focused intently on her face, his expression unreadable. Then his lips curved up at one corner. “Nor do I. You swooned even before we’d been properly introduced. I usually have to speak before that happens.”

Isabella laughed lightly at his charm and cleverness. She, however, had no idea what to say to him. But his voice… Oh, how she remembered his voice! It mesmerized her then as it did now — husky soft, low and rich, begging—

“Forgive me,” Fairbourne said after an awkward pause, his tone slightly amused. “Lady Viola Cheshire, his grace, the Duke of Chatwin.”

The man took a step forward to tower over her, blocking the brilliantly illuminated chandelier with his powerful form. Then with a gentle nod, he reached out with his hand, palm up.

Viola stared at it for a several long seconds, unsure what to do. But her head had begun to clear. The music played around them, the champagne flowed, and the party carried on as the first great event of the season. They were only two among many. She also realized something else: he’d inherited a new title, and a grand one at that. As a gentleman of such distinguished rank, he certainly wouldn’t expose her, or their past, in front of his peers. Not tonight. Not here, like this. She had no idea why he acted as if he didn’t remember her, and he no doubt enjoyed her discomfiture, but for now her reputation was safe, and that was all that mattered. She had time.

Feeling relief wash over her, more confident for the moment, she inhaled another deep breath. Then staring at his long, hard fingers, she lifted her gloved hand and placed it gingerly atop his.

He closed his thumb over her knuckles, then second by second, gently helped her rise. Standing before him once more, she curtsied with elegance, playing the part she’d learned.

“Your grace.”

“Lady Cheshire.”

Her name seemed to roll off his tongue as if the sound of it fascinated him. Or perhaps it was only her imagination. But the strength she felt from him as he touched her now, hand to gloved hand, permeated her skin to shock her thoroughly, inside and out.

Strong. Vibrant. Alive. Because of her.

He released her and took a step back, standing tall, arms behind him. “Feeling better, I hope.”

She shook herself and rubbed her palm down the bodice of her gown. “Indeed. Thank you.”

He nodded once.

Another strain moment skipped by. Then Isabella said, “So… Mother informed us you’re an art collector?”

“I am,” he replied without elaboration.

Viola swallowed. “And a friend of Lord Fairbourne. How delightful for him— for you. As it were.” It was likely the most ridiculous thing she’d ever said, and she felt like cowering inside the moment it was out of her mouth.

Isabella glanced from one to the other, then thankfully saved her more embarrassment. “Uh, Lord Chatwin, Lady Cheshire is an exceptional artist. Perhaps you’ve seen her work?”

Viola felt Ian’s stare on her again and she forced a flat smile even as she felt renewed heat creep up her neck.

“I’ve no idea,” he replied evenly. “Are you perchance famous, madam?”

The tenor of his voice teased her to the core, just as it did all those years ago. But there also appeared a telling confidence about him. She raised her lashes to capture his gaze once again, immediately sensing an undefined boldness in their dark depths, something calculating that sent a ripple of warning through her body.

Fairbourne, who’d been silently watching for the last minute or two, crossed his arms over his tailored evening coat. “No need to be humble, Lady Cheshire, you may admit it. I’ve already told Chatwin you’ve painted most of the nobility’s formal portraits in recent years and are celebrated as one of the finest artists in London. It’s why he’s here.”

“Why he’s here?” Isabella repeated.

Viola reached up to wipe a stray curl from her forehead, not because it bothered her, but because she felt more uncomfortable at that moment than she had in the last five years and desperately needed something to do.

“I apologize if I’ve been vague,” Ian murmured, his smile pleasant as he continued to scrutinize her. “But I’ve just returned to London, and expect to remain only for the season. Since your good reputation precedes you, I wanted to meet you straight away, Lady Cheshire, in the hope that we can discuss a commission of your work while I’m here?”

Again, she felt dumbstruck, numb. She had no intention of working for him, being alone with him. Not ever. And yet when he asked like this, standing before her in a crowded ballroom, dressed formally and presenting himself as a man of great wealth and power, she simply could not deny him his request for one innocent meeting. Not if she were to maintain her status as a lady of quality and her reputation as a professional artist.

There was something about this entire encounter that just seemed bizarre. No mention of their past, no recognition from him at all, really. And yet she felt a tension between them that threatened her composure, forcing her to play his hand for the moment.

Overcoming her reluctance, she nodded once, clutching Isabella’s fan to her waist in a measure of defense. “I’ll have to review my schedule.”

“Of course,” he replied at once as if expecting such a standard response.

The orchestra struck up a waltz. Isabella cleared her throat and Fairbourne took the cue.

“Would you honor me with a dance, my lady?”

She smiled beautifully as she placed her silk covered palm on his arm. “I’d be delighted, your grace.”

Suddenly, watching her friend wander into the noisy group of mostly inebriated nobility, Viola felt more isolated in the crowded ballroom that she would in a dinghy in the middle of the sea. With growing trepidation, she lifted her gaze one more time, meeting his.

Don’t ask me to dance. Please don’t ask me to dance—

“Lady Viola Cheshire,” he drawled in whisper.

She felt an instant thundering in her breast as he used her given name. “Yes, your grace?”

His lids narrowed, and very, very slowly, he studied the length of her, from the hem of her full, ruby red gown, through her tightly corseted bodice, pausing briefly at her low, rounded neckline and the golden locket resting in the crease of her bosom before moving up her throat to her flushing face. When at last he looked back into her eyes, her breath caught in a whirlwind of panic. For the slightest second she felt hunger within him. Not lust as she knew it, but something else. Something she couldn’t possibly define.

His lips twitched. “I don’t feel much like dancing at the moment.”

A palpable relief swept over her even as she felt the slightest twinge of disappointment.

His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Would you care to walk with me on the promenade instead?”

She swallowed, simply unable to look away from him, or answer.

He smiled again as if sensing her hesitation, a beautiful smile that softened the hard planes of his face. Then lifted his arm for her.

She took it because she didn’t dare deny him, and in the course of ten seconds, they were heading out of the ballroom.