The lady went red, opening her mouth to spew some scathing retort, but closed it as her eyes flicked—along with everyone else’s—to the ballroom entrance.

Sarani did not have to turn. She felt his presence like a palpable force. A wash of goose pimples spread across her skin, the fine hairs of her neck lifting in instant response.

“The Duke of Embry,” the majordomo intoned.

All at once, the chatter died as every lady with a pulse, even the married ones, smoothed her dress and patted her coiffure. Sarani forced herself to remain still, even when she felt the duchess’s gaze flick coldly toward her. Sensing Rhystan’s approach, she turned slowly, her blood thickening to molasses in her veins at the breathtaking sight of him dressed in raven black from head to toe.

Sweet merciful heavens, he was sin on a stick. Her hitherto dry mouth watered indelicately.

“Duchess.” He greeted his mother with a quick nod of his head and then turned to her. “Lady Sara,” he said, his deep voice washing over her as he lifted her gloved hand and kissed it. “How lovely you are.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she mumbled with a curtsy, the whole of him assaulting her shaky senses on every level. Sight, smell, hearing, touch. The only thing missing was taste. Her traitorous tongue darted out to wet her lips.

His gaze slid there, a smirk forming as if he knew exactly the effect he had on her.

Could he sense that she wanted to do unspeakable things to him? That she wanted to claim that sinful mouth without a care for decorum like the heathen she was accused of being? Releasing a ragged breath, she pinned her tingling lips between her teeth, and his smirk widened. And now, her cheeks were positively on fire.

She cleared her throat. “You are, too. Lovely. Er, handsome. Drat, you know what I mean. You look well.”

Gracious, she was a lackwit. Queen of the Lackwits.

He smiled as the musical strains of a new set began and offered her his right arm. “Will you dance?”

Sarani hoped her knees would not fail her. “I am yours to command, Your Grace.”

* * *

Rhystan was well aware he was causing a scene by ignoring everyone else, given the glowers coming from the thin-lipped visage of his mother. Yet even she wasn’t aware of just how close he’d come to throwing propriety to the wind, flinging Sarani over his shoulder, and hauling her from the room like a Neanderthal at her husky, provocative reply.

I am yours to command.