Page 37 of How Not to Marry a Duke

“Then we shall practice looking at each other with amorous attention, as if we are at a ball or strolling in the park or sitting across from each other in a crowded dining room,” he said.

A prickling grew in the pit of her stomach. Touch him. Look longingly at him. Meet his gaze and smile. It would be torturous. Exciting. Thrilling.

Dangerous.

“We will still have to dance,” she insisted. “I received an invitation to Lady Furlong’s country dance. It’s the same day as the village fair. It’s an opportunity for us to dance before a larger London ball.”

“Fine. I’ll attend. Meanwhile, we can practice dancing now if you’d like,” he said.

Suddenly he pulled her close and she found herself pressed flush against him. Her hands landed on his arms for balance, her fingers curling around his biceps. The muscles flexed beneath her hands, and her breath caught. She looked up into his eyes, and his grip on her waist tightened. She was highly conscious of the placement of each finger on her ribcage. Warmth billowed up inside her, heating more than where he touched her. She felt it in the strangest places. Fluttering in her belly. A tingling between her legs. She sucked in a breath. “That won’t be necessary right this moment.” Her voice rose an octave.

He released her at once. “As you wish. I apologize. You must be exhausted.”

She had been. Until she’d slipped her hand in his and he’d pulled her against him. Her exhaustion had blown away like dry leaves in a strong gust of wind. Eyes wide, she stepped back, a tumble of fear and excitement knotting in her chest. With slightly trembling fingers, she smoothed her skirts to gather her wits.

“You needn’t worry. I will be sure to visit you with roses and poetry in hand at Lord Foster’s home each day,” Warwick said.

Her stomach jolted in an unpleasant manner that had nothing to do with the man standing before her.

“You cannot,” she blurted out.

“Why? Will your brother deny me entry? I hadn’t thought of that.” He rubbed his chin with a thumb and forefinger.

“It’s not that. Edwin will deny me entry.”

“Pardon?”

“My brother all but forcibly removed me from the London home.”

“You’re jesting?”

She shook her head.

“Son of a—” Warwick caught himself before he emitted what she assumed was an obscene curse in front of a lady. It would have been amusing had it not been about her very real circumstances.

Warwick’s lips thinned in a grim line. “I hadn’t believed it possible. My dislike of your brother has increased.”

“Half brother,” she corrected.

“Why would he toss you out?”

Her face heated once more, but this time it had nothing to do with the man standing before her. “I already told you of my mother’s Arabic background and how she married the old earl soon after the death of his first English wife, Edwin’s mother.”

“Edwin didn’t approve.”

She nodded once. “It was a crime Edwin could never forgive. He despised my mother. He never accepted her Arab roots and believed her beneath our father. It was not just prejudice on his part, but a deep-seated resentment that his parents had a cold, unloving marriage, whereas our father adored my mother.”

“So he holds it against you?”

A brief shiver rippled through her. “Yes, I’m of impure Arab blood as well.”

“This changes things.”

A cold knot formed in her stomach. Had the duke changed his mind about helping after learning how Lord Foster treated her? Would her half brother’s prejudice taint the Duke of Warwick’s perspective?

“I had planned to write my godmother and tell her of our mutual admiration,” Warwick said.

“You will no longer write her?”