Undercover Duke

a compliment. A rather surprising one, too, considering you’ve only danced with me thrice.”
“Once would be enough to recognize your ability, but thrice certainly is. I’d be a dimwitted fellow indeed if I hadn’t noticed it after that.”
She flipped her fan open and fluttered it over her bosom. “Your extravagant flatteries have left me all atwitter.”
Sheridan fought a smile even as her motion drew his gaze to the upper swells of her lovely breasts, which was undoubtedly her intention. “Do not tease me, you insolent chit,” he said, jerking his eyes back up, “or I will tread on your toes in the dance.”
“You would never.” With a minxish gleam in her eyes, she dropped her fan to dangle from her wrist. “I have yet to see you falter on the floor. You obviously had an excellent dancing instructor.”
“My parents made sure I was well prepared for my role in diplomacy. And now it’s all for naught.”
“Hardly. As duke you’ll be expected to impress everyone with your lightness of foot. After all, you don’t want to ruin your reputation as Saint Sheridan.”
Groaning, he took her gloved hands in his. “I don’t know how I got that damned nickname, but I hate it.”
“As I recall, it came from your family.” They circled as they were supposed to. “Because any time the rest of us are being merry and kicking up our heels, you’re the one going off to sequester yourself in some back study to heed your duke-ish responsibilities. Lord only knows what you’re doing in there.”
“Trust me,” he said dryly, “it’s nothing whatsoever that would interest you.” He faced the other lady with a dip of his head, did the requisite steps, and then once more found himself opposite Vanessa. “This is much more to your taste, I would imagine.”
Her sparkling smile faltered, and it was as if white, fluffy clouds suddenly showed their dark undersides. He wanted the fluffy clouds back. What had he said? How could he fix it?
Damn, why did he care if he fixed it? Vanessa had her eyes on another man, and he didn’t care. Best to remember that.
She remained silent for a while, doing the steps, sliding here, sliding there, and in short being the perfect dance partner he’d characterized her as. But her enjoyment of the dance had clearly dimmed.
When they halted opposite each other at the bottom of the set, waiting for the other couples to come down the center one by one, he had to say something. She was breaking his bloody heart with her clear disappointment. “I’m usually going over the books.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“In ‘some back study.’ While I’m sequestered. I’m going over the books for the estate.”
“Oh.” She fanned herself again, but this time undoubtedly because it was damned hot in the ballroom, especially for November. Unfortunately, the fanning wafted her floral scent to him—although he couldn’t place the flower it came from. Perhaps it wasn’t a flower at all, but some exotic perfume she’d bought at Floris on Jermyn Street.
He was still breathing it in when she added, “I would have thought you’d have . . . people to do that for you.”
To do what for me? he nearly asked. Right. Go over his ledgers. He didn’t dare say he couldn’t afford to have people do that for him, not entirely anyway, and certainly not if he wanted to save the dukedom for future generations. “Regardless, it’s important to gain a sense of how one’s money is being spent. If you know what I mean.”
God, what was he doing, blurting out this sort of information in the midst of a ballroom?
But the darkness had faded from her face. “I know exactly what you mean.”
He got the distinct impression that she actually did. Which was absurd. What could she possibly know about running an estate? According to Grey, her father’s holdings had been modest, and in any case, wouldn’t have been managed by her.
They found themselves at the top of the set again, forced to perform certain steps and then join hands to dance back down. She had a firm grip for a woman. He liked that about her. No limp hands for Vanessa, oh, no. And suddenly he wished they were alone together in a room somewhere. . . .
Nonsense. What was he thinking? He and Vanessa would not suit. Even she must know it.
Then they reached the bottom of the set and she took her spot across from him and he noticed that her gloves were slipping down her arms as before. He found himself wondering if . . . waiting to see if she would let them fall below her elbows as before, too.
Her gloves were on the verge of doing so when she absently pulled both up, one after the other. He stifled a sigh. One day very soon, he was going to get her alone somewhere and draw down one of those curst gloves just to see her bare elbows. And then he would press his lips to the inside bend so he could find out once and for all if her pulse would beat for him during such an intimate moment.
Not because he truly meant to court her, and not because he wanted anything further. Just so he would know. Because if one intended to forego sweets for Lent, it was only a sacrifice if one had tasted those sweets often enough to know how much one would miss them.

Chapter Five
Vanessa couldn’t stop smiling. Her dance with Sheridan had gone better than she’d hoped. She wished etiquette didn’t require that she dance with a variety of partners, because she could easily have floated through every set with Sheridan. But she still owed Mr. Juncker a dance, and she would have to pretend to be happy about it.
As the poet took her to the floor, she swept her gaze about the ballroom to see whom Sheridan was dancing with. Her pleasure faltered when she spotted him with her friend Flora.