Excerpt: One Dance with a Duke by Tessa Dare

Check out an excerpt of One Dance with a Duke by Tessa Dare.

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As he approached the knot of young ladies, his eye settled on a slender reed of a girl standing on the fringe of the group, looking positively jaundiced in melon-colored satin. When he advanced toward her, she cowered into the shadow of her neighbor. She refused to even meet his gaze. Perfect.

Just as he extended his hand in invitation, he was arrested by a series of unexpected sounds. The rattle of glass panes. The slam of a door. Heels clicking against travertine in a brisk, staccato rhythm.

Spencer swiveled instinctively. A youngish woman in blue careened across the floor like a billiard ball, reeling to a halt before him. His hand remained outstretched from his aborted invitation to Miss Melony Satin, and this newly-arrived lady took hold of it firmly.

Dipping in a shallow curtsy, she said, “Thank you, Your Grace. I would be honored.”

And after a stunned, painful pause, the music began.

The clump of disappointed ladies dispersed in search of new partners, grumbling as they went. And for the first time all season, Spencer found himself partnered with a lady not of his choosing. She had selected him.

How very surprising.

How very unpleasant.

Nevertheless, there was nothing to be done. The impertinent woman queued up across from him for the country dance. Did he even know this lady?

As the other dancers fell into place around them, he took the opportunity to study her. He found little to admire. Any measure of genteel poise she might claim had fallen casualty to that inelegant sprint across the ballroom. Stray wisps of hair floated about her face; her breath was labored with exertion. This state of agitation did her complexion no favors, but it did enhance the swell of her ample bosom. She was amply endowed everywhere, actually. Generous curves pulled against the blue silk of her gown.

“Forgive me,” he said, as they circled one another. “Have we been introduced?”

“Years ago, once. I would not expect you to remember. I am Lady Amelia d’Orsay.”

The pattern of the dance parted them, and Spencer had some moments to absorb this name: Lady Amelia d’Orsay. Her late father had been the seventh Earl of Beauvale. Her elder brother, Laurent, was currently the eighth Earl of Beauvale.

And her younger brother Jack was a scapegrace wastrel who owed Spencer four hundred pounds.

She must have sensed the moment of this epiphany, for when they next clasped hands she said, “We needn’t speak of it now. It can wait for the waltz.”

He quietly groaned. This was going to be a very long set. If only he’d moved more quickly in securing the jaundiced one’s hand. Now that Lady Amelia’s brash maneuver had been successful, God only knew what stunt the ladies—or more likely, their mothers—would attempt next. Maybe he should start engaging his partners’ hands in advance of the event. But that would necessitate social calls, and Spencer did not make social calls. Perhaps he could direct his secretary to send notes? The entire situation was wearying.

The country dance ended. The waltz began. And he was forced to take her in his arms, this woman who had just made his life a great deal more complicated.

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