“Lady Jillian, would you honor me with a dance?” he asked, loudly enough to carry. The musicians recognized a cue when they heard one, and took up their instruments once again. The duke gathered her gloved hand in his, settled it in the crook of his elbow to lead her to the floor. This time he did not have to elbow his way through them; the sea of people parted to let them pass, their curious gazes burning.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jilly saw Nora dragging her husband onto the dance floor as well in a gesture of solidarity that warmed her heart. A few more couples followed suit, far fewer than would normally be expected, but enough that Jilly felt somehow less visible.
Still she felt like some sort of prey animal. The instinct to turn her head, to ascertain Adrian’s location, was strong indeed.
“Don’t,” the duke said in a low voice, as he settled his hand on her waist. “I won’t let him reach you. But if you look for him, you’ll give the impression that you want him to approach.”
A searing pit of humiliation settled in her belly, and her stomach clenched and churned on it, pitching around the champagne she’d imbibed until she was no longer certain she would keep it down where it belonged.
He bent his head to her ear. “Look only at me. Give them something else to talk about.” As the musicians struck the opening chords of the waltz, he carried her into the steps, supported her with only his hand at her waist. She was surprised she did not stumble, that her limbs did not creak with strain.
“Relax, Jilly,” he murmured, and she did stumble—though he effortlessly stabilized her, sweeping her into the turn as if her tiny dip had been intentional. “You want to appear unaffected, don’t you? Smile, then. A laugh wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Somehow she summoned a smile and kept her eyes fixated on his. “We are not friends, Your Grace. You should address me as Lady Jillian.”
He shrugged, unruffled by her animosity. “Perhaps we’re not quite friends yet, but I’m certainly the lesser of two evils right now.” His eyes seared hers, full of satisfaction. “You may call me James, if you like.”
“That would be entirely inappropriate.” Only years of practice kept her smile from slipping. She soothed herself with the knowledge that any onlooker would see only her blithe, untroubled face, would never know how she inwardly trembled.
“You asked me to dance. Are you truly going to quibble over propriety now?” He cast her a disarming smile, squeezed the hand that he held in his. “You’re doing well enough, but you still look a bit brittle about the eyes. Best to rectify that before the dance ends.”
She drew in a harsh, offended breath. “I have no control over that, Your Grace,” she said in a crisp, annoyed tone.
“Of course you do. He has only the power you give him.”
She ground her teeth together.