The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(77)

He gave his head a bemused shake.

“With words. Which given their nature, those equations should have been poetic, no?” she asked, taking a step closer. “But can you imagine keeping ledgers or recording accountings for your estates or business with only words? How much time that would take, and how much time you would lose from life for it.” A flash of understanding lit his eyes. “Therefore, I would argue, even though each is uniquely different, there is a place for both, Your Grace.”

The duke stared at her a long while in an appraising manner, and she shifted under that scrutiny. Then, he smiled, and that gentle mirth dulled the previous pain. “Indeed, you are correct, Miss Banbury. One would say, brought together, even vastly different, a beautiful harmony is found.”

Did she imagine the veiled meaning of those words?

He leveled her with a stare that threatened to see inside her.

“Would you object if I steal Miss Banbury away for the next set?”

They swiveled their attention to Robert.

“Rob—My lord,” she swiftly amended, her cheeks flaming.

He winked, and her heart tripped a beat. That fool woman who’d thrown away his love. And Helena must be in possession of the blackest soul, for in this selfish moment she was wholly glad there was no longer a Lucy.

“Of course, of course,” the Duke of Somerset said, gesturing to Helena.

“I do not—”

Robert held out his hand. “Dance? This isn’t a dance, Miss Banbury.” He dropped his voice. “This is a waltz. I’ve it on authority that you’ve perfected the waltz.”

And though dancing had quick become a lesson in humiliation during her time in London, the desire to be in his arms far outweighed her pride. Helena dropped a curtsy to the Duke of Somerset. “It was an honor, Your Grace,” she murmured, and then allowed Robert to tuck her hand in his sleeve and lead her to the dance floor.

“We’d but one lesson,” she said under her breath, as he positioned them at the edge of the dance floor.

“I’m offended, madam, that you’d question my skills as an instructor. Did you forget that day in the gardens so easily?” Desire glinted his eyes and heat sparked in her veins and spread in a slow conflagration that threatened to consume her under the memory he roused.

Helena managed a jerky nod. She swallowed a moan as he guided his hand lower on the small of her back, and then the orchestra proceeded to play. As their bodies moved in an easy harmony to the whine of the orchestra’s violins, Helena was reduced to nothing but a bundle of sensation. Heat poured off Robert’s broad chest, and her fingers tightened on his thickly muscled biceps.

He lowered his mouth close to her ear, and by God she would go with him now, wherever he’d lead. The promise in the gardens. The feel of his touch. She wanted it all before she left London, never to again see him. This magnetic pull he had over her was one that could not be repelled.

“Surely you’ve not forgotten, there is still the matter of demonstrating to those fortune-hunting swains, too, isn’t there?”

Except that. That could shatter this haze. His words had the same effect as tossing a bucket of cold Thames water over her. Of course. This was all pretend. For him. That had only just ceased to be the case for her. The fake smile she donned strained her cheeks. “Of course, I’ve not forgotten.” It was, after all, the whole reason she’d enlisted his aid.

Robert ran an uncharacteristically somber gaze over her face. “What is it?” He growled. “Did my father say something to you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “He was quite kind.” Her gaze found the duke on the fringe of the activity. It was hardly her place to interfere on a matter between Robert and his father. She was not long for this world with Robert, but before she left, she could open his eyes to the inevitable loss awaiting him. “Your father appears . . . strained.”

Robert frowned, and followed her stare. “Are you being deliberately evasive?” He lowered his head so their brows touched. “Or are you so wholly unmoved by being in my arms?”

His arms were the only place she wished to be. Forever.

She missed a step, and he caught her against him, righting her.

“What is troubling you?” he asked again, running a sharp gaze over her face.

I love you . . . “It is nothing.” Everything. “I am merely counting beats.” Liar. Until her brief meeting with Robert’s father, when had she last thought about anything mathematical? Or the club?

In a short time, this man had become everything to her.

“One-two-three. One-two-three,” he whispered close to her ear, his mellifluous baritone a silken promise that had her wishing for all number of things that could never be.

Unable to meet his piercing stare, Helena looked around his shoulder to the sea of guests eying the Marquess of Westfield with his unlikely companion. The befuddlement in their expressions, and the condescending stares, spoke of people who judged and found her wanting.

“Do not look at them,” Robert said quietly, jerking her attention up. In this moment, with the dark, nameless emotion in those eyes, she could almost believe he felt the same. “Look at me. Only me. No one else matters but me and you.” Her heart faltered. And whatever piece of that rapidly pounding organ that hadn’t previously belonged to him fell away and into his hands.