The steps of the dance led her away from the duke and back to John Finchley. He wasn’t unattractive, and he did have a very ready smile, but when their hands touched she felt none of the sparks and confusion she felt when the duke merely glanced her way.

“I haven’t seen you at a ball before, Miss Beaton.”

“I’m here as companion to the Duke of Westbury’s sisters.”

“I tried to convince Della to come tonight but she was too busy with her chemical experiments. I do hope the house is still standing when I return home.”

Viola laughed. “I remember the time she came to one of our book club meetings with singed eyebrows.”

Mr. Finchley chuckled and Viola moved on to another partner.

Her gaze kept finding the duke. And every time she looked at him, he was staring at her.

Why, oh why, couldn’t she stop herself from having these inappropriate feelings?

Dancing was a mating ritual, as the duke had observed. And mating was on her mind.

She had a bodily reaction when she saw him that she couldn’t control. He was so wholly bad and dangerous. So virile. She imagined that the way she felt about him was similar to the way he felt about gambling. A dangerous occupation, fraught with an illicit thrill, the possibility of lasting harm, a compulsion.

It wasn’t love; it was compulsion.

She craved him like a gambler craved the rattle of dice. Like a drunkard craved strong spirits.

This craving was bad for her heart, her mind. It was bad. Simply bad. And every time she resolved never to think about him again it never worked.

“Are you having fun?” Westbury asked when they were paired again.

“I’ll admit that you were right. I do like dancing,” she said, a little breathlessly, as they met and his hands clasped hers.

“You see?” He grinned. “It’s not so difficult to admit that I’m right.”

His smile was dazzlingly intimate. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile at her before. “You should smile more often, Your Grace.”

“I don’t make a habit of it, Miss Beaton. But perhaps you bring it out in me. You’re always smiling. It takes a concerted effort not to join in.”

“What is life without joy?”

“Dry toast with no butter?”

Another intimate exchange of smiles. This could begin to be a habit. Giving smiles and having them returned by handsome dukes.

Handsome dukes who were engaged to other ladies.

The dance separated them and brought her back to Mr. Finchley. The set ended and he made his bows and sought his next partner.

Would Westbury claim the next dance, as he’d promised? What if it were a waltz—she’d be held in his arms, just the two of them . . . floating on the music of violins, exchanging smiles and—

“Miss Beaton, is it?”