The Duke of Defiance (The Untouchables #5)(23)

He pivoted again, taking them in a new direction. “I think Becky had fun at our house today.”

The sudden change in topic jarred Jo, but she didn’t say anything. If he’d rather not discuss the pain of his brothers’ treatment, especially in the middle of a ballroom, who was she to argue? That didn’t alleviate her curiosity, however.

“Yes, I heard all about the miniature marzipan castle. Becky insists she have one too.”

“I should’ve got one for her.”

“While kind of you, that isn’t necessary. Nora’s cook is actually quite skilled with marzipan, so she’s arranged for the girls to spend an afternoon with her in the kitchen.”

He grinned. “Evie will love that. What an excellent idea.”

“It was mine, actually.” Jo wasn’t sure why she’d revealed that—it hardly mattered whose idea it was. Actually, maybe she did know. He’d smiled so enthusiastically, and she’d wanted that directed at her.

“Of course it was your idea. When I commented the other day that you should be my governess, I wasn’t entirely teasing.” And she’d been so certain he was. “But I think you should actually be a mother.” He peered at her, his dark blue eyes piercing into her and somehow stealing her breath.

Or maybe it was what he’d said. Yes, definitely that.

She should be a mother.

The ache that was so often buried in her gut rose to the surface. She nearly stumbled, but he clasped her more tightly, one hand flattening against her spine and the other gently squeezing her fingers.

“All right?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “It was bound to happen,” she said tightly, still fighting the emotion roiling inside her.

“I suppose so, given our novice state.”

Thankfully, the music drew to a close. Jo was eager to escape the sudden cloying oppression of the ballroom. The heat, the eyes, the…expectation. She needed air. “You’ve acquitted yourself quite well.” Her voice sounded thin to her ears, but hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

“High praise that seems a bit flawed, but it’s probably boorish of me to dispute you.” He flashed her a half smile. “But then you already know I’m a boor in private.”

She put her hand on his arm as he escorted her from the dance floor. “I wouldn’t call you a boor, my lord.”

“If we were in Barbados I’d ask you to call me Bran.”

“They wouldn’t call you my lord?”

“After I inherited, I asked them not to. Why bother since I was leaving anyway?”

He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met before. “You live by your own rules, don’t you?” she asked.

“Rules, like cravats, are constricting. I prefer to just live in comfort and contentment.” He delivered her to Nora and Lady Satterfield, who’d returned.

She withdrew her hand and thanked him for the dance. She liked his perspective, especially right now when she was feeling so agitated in the ballroom. In fact, while propriety demanded she stand there and chat for a few minutes, she couldn’t bear it. A dull sound had started in her ears, and she felt as though she couldn’t take a deep breath.

She needed to go outside, or at the very least, to the retiring room. “If you’ll excuse me.” She caught the worried glint in Nora’s eye, but hurried from the ballroom without a backward glance.



Watching Mrs. Shaw’s pink skirts flutter about her ankles as she fled, Bran was certain he’d said something wrong. Again. Was it that he’d been ungracious when she’d offered him a compliment about his dancing? He’d only wanted to put her at ease since it seemed as though her misstep had caused her distress.

Maybe that was it. She was merely embarrassed. People, women in particular, had always been a mystery to Bran. As soon as he thought he’d worked something out, he was thrown off course once more. At least he seemed to be improving. Things had been much worse in his youth. Had he really mentioned that to her?

And that was why he preferred to avoid things like this ball.

Along with the damnable clothing he was forced to wear. Hudson had insisted that his cravat hold more starch than usual, which was next to none, so tonight was a special torture. As a result, Bran felt as though he were suffering the hangman’s noose.

Furthermore, he despised close crowds, and the throng in the ballroom had swelled while they were dancing. Torture was exactly the right word. He envied Mrs. Shaw’s flight.

“Did you have a nice dance?” Lady Satterfield asked politely.

Bran could see that the Duchess was anxious to go after her sister, but she didn’t. He’d give her that opportunity by leaving. “We did, thank you. If you’ll excuse me.”

Both women blinked at him, appearing a bit nonplussed. He could attribute that to Mrs. Shaw’s abrupt departure, but why not his as well? He ought to have stayed and exchanged a few pleasantries. Instead, he’d dashed off at the earliest possible moment.

Damn, maybe he really wasn’t any better than he’d been in his youth.

He made his way through the ballroom, uncertain of where he was going. Suddenly, he caught the gaze of a gentleman. He looked familiar… Bugger, it was that Talbot ass, whom he’d met at Brooks’s the other night.

Desperate to avoid the man, Bran saw the open door to the terrace and revised his direction. Quickening his pace, he stepped outside. Lit with sconces, the terrace held several people milling about. Still too many people. Not to mention, Talbot had only to follow him outside.