Squashing down her confusing feelings—she should be pleased, not dejected—she lifted her chin and giggled again. Did the duke just flinch? In truth, even she was getting sick of the trilling, high-pitched sound she’d perfected over the past year. One of her many suitors onboard had said it sounded like musical wind chimes, but she wasn’t so sure, given the duke’s constipated expression.

“Not yet, Lady Willington,” she replied in a singsong tone. “The poor duke has yet to have the courage to ask me for a dance, much less my hand in marriage. He’s rather shy, you see, and probably intimidated by the competition.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice a stage whisper. “One of the men who might declare his intentions is connected to a prince!”

Bronwyn didn’t have to look…she could feel the duke’s disdain. She was laying it on rather thick. But the older woman nodded, eyes bright with the idea of being a matchmaker. “Thornbury, you should remedy that forthwith and ask Lady Bronwyn to dance at the ball. The first waltz would be perfect. You simply must ask her right this moment.”

“Must I?”

“Yes, I insist,” Lady Willington said. “Sometimes the most excellent match needs a little nudge.”

Bronwyn couldn’t quite hide her glee at the aghast look on Thornbury’s face. Would he say no and dash the hopes of a sweet older lady? Of course he would. The man was made of glass splinters and crystal shards.

“I’ve promised the first waltz to Lady Lisbeth.”

To everyone’s surprise, his former countess groaned. “Your Grace, I cannot dance because of my recent…toe injury. I stubbed it on the upper deck earlier this morning, do you not recall? It is providential that Lady Bronwyn might take my place.”

The deadly look he shot her would have felled her in an instant, Bronwyn was sure, but the woman only grinned wider. She could have sworn that Lisbeth showed no sign of foot injury earlier when she’d sauntered back to the table, her graceful presence making everyone in the dining saloon take notice.

“Very well then, it seems I should thank you, Lady Willington,” the duke bit out, his smile mocking. “Lady Bronwyn?”

She licked dry lips, watching those citrine eyes lower and flare before he dragged his gaze away. Bronwyn’s breath faltered, her flirty persona failing her for an alarmed heartbeat. Good gracious, did the Duke of Thornbury desire her? He loathed her, she could tell. He didn’t deign to hide how shallow and insubstantial he thought she was, but that sharp glint had been unmistakable. Her heart gave a silly, girlish squeeze in her chest. Was that why he’d left earlier?

Inasmuch as gratification filled her, dread followed.

No, no. She had to dissuade him. She drummed her fingers on the table, a nervous gesture that she instantly quelled.