“Alas, I shall have to check my dance card, Your Grace. The pleasure of my company is rather in demand, you see.”

“Quelle surprise,” he muttered darkly.

Bronwyn lifted an amused brow. “Why should it be a surprise? I didn’t think a fine, upstanding gentleman like you would be so afraid of a little competition, Your Grace.”

“I was being sarcastic,” he said and took a sip of his whisky. The liquid matched his eyes, she noted, a single drop glistening on the fullness of his bottom lip. Mesmerized, she watched as his tongue flicked out to collect it. What would his lips taste like? Coated in whisky?

Like sin and stupidity.

She needed to stop before she made a fool of herself yearning for a pair of lips she had no business yearning for.

“Truly the lowest form of wit,” she tossed back and turned her attention to the last course, smiling up at a still-blushing Harry who had delivered the plate with a poached pear drizzled in chocolate. “Why am I not surprised, Your Grace, that you would be so disagreeable? I’m not surprised that you had to take the air if your disposition is this bad.” She tapped her chin. “Have you considered whether it might be gout?”

“I do not have gout,” he bit out.

“I say, lad, gout causes constipation,” Lord Willington put in. “You have to regulate your bowels before your feet start swelling. Tart cherry juice will do the trick.”

Bronwyn’s eyes went wide, and she pinned her lips so tightly to keep from bursting into laughter that her teeth ached. Oh God, she was going to die! “Prune juice,” she pronounced sagely, despite the laughter bubbling up into her throat. “For the bowels. I understand if you must excuse yourself from our waltz.”

His stare should have set her on fire. The smothered guffaw from Lisbeth, who coughed into her napkin, made the duke’s scowl deepen, and Bronwyn nearly lost her battle with her composure. Poor Lady Willington looked confused as if she couldn’t quite comprehend the undercurrent beneath what seemed on the surface to be easy conversation. Her husband had returned to tucking into his dessert, too busy to notice any metaphorical bloodshed at the table.

“This is easily settled.” The growled words were barely audible, but when the duke let out another dark rumble, reached over, and took hold of Bronwyn’s wrist, her next breath went captive in her lungs. The heat from his gloved hand seared her as if he’d touched her with bare skin, and the sheer size of those long fingers encircling her wrist was enough to make her pulse kick up a few notches. He took hold of the dance card and its attached pencil that dangled from a silver ribbon.