Chapter Five
The duke’s low tone was darkness and sin and something wickedly delightful. And she heard the threat of challenge and warning in his soft, contemplative question.
Before she could formulate a proper response, the sound of the hostess ordering the orchestra to play pierced the air. Too slowly for comfort, the strains of the waltz leaped to life, and those who found the scandalous dance more rousing than Kitty and, presumably, the duke swept themselves away onto the floor.
Suddenly, Lady Sanderson herself was by their side.
“Your Grace, you honor me,” the marchioness breathed, dipping into a curtsy, her eyes glowing with her pleasure. What a coup it was for her to be the first to declare the Duke of Thornton had been under her roof. “I’ve summoned my lord from the card rooms, and he shall be here momentarily.”
Her gaze lingered too long on the porcelain mask before flickering to the bath chair. The marchioness wrung her hands, her fluster spiking the nervous tension inside Kitty.
It was imperative she find a way to escape the ball, rush home, pack her belongings, and disappear.
As if the duke sensed her silly, panicked thoughts, he spoke. “I will meet with Sanderson before I depart. As it stands, I must confer with my…beloved immediately.”
Dear God.
He had read the scandal sheets.
The marchioness dipped into a curtsy and hurried away.
“If I recall correctly,” the duke continued, turning back to her, “Sanderson has a small drawing room this way, which would offer us privacy, Miss Danvers.”
Away from the ball, and safety, and her friends, and possibly flight? Most certainly not.
Yet her tongue would not loosen. A mocking smile ghosted across the half lips not covered by the mask, and Kitty narrowed her eyes, not liking that he perceived her dreadful anxiety.
“Certainly, Your Grace. If you’ll lead the way,” she said staunchly.
They turned away from the ballroom, and the weighted speculation of the ton felt like a boulder pressed on top of her shoulders. As her fiancé, he could converse with her in relative privacy without undue conjecture, and Kitty would still ensure she left the door ajar.
The manservant spoke to him in Greek as he pushed him in the wheeled contraption down the empty hallway.
Why was she merely following like a lamb to the slaughter?
“I believe this to be the drawing room,” the duke said smoothly.
His manservant opened the door, and she cheered up slightly to see it was a small study. That, however, did not deter him. There was a fire burning low in the grate, and the room was cast in more shadow than light.
“This is adequate,” he said, then addressed the servant once more in the same language.
His servant bowed, and then a silver-handled walking cane seemed to materialize in the hands of the manservant. The duke gripped it and stood.
Oh. He could walk.
The duke was taller than she imagined, and though he had a cane, his posture was impeccable. Her forehead barely cleared his chin, bringing the masculine breadth of his chest into stark review. He was dressed in formal trousers and jacket, complemented by a blue waistcoat and an expertly tied silken crav
at.
His body was lean, lithe, powerful, with no trace of softness anywhere. That she did not expect from a man in a bath chair.
How had he ended up this way? While the gossip had hinted of an accident, no details had been revealed. The question hovered on her lips, and she forcibly swallowed it back.
He waved for her to precede him inside, and she sauntered into the room with affected calm. She jolted when he closed the door behind him with a decisive snick. “I believe, Your Grace, the door should be ajar. For propriety’s sake,” she hurriedly added.
It was important to her he did not think her afraid or witless.
“Do you?”