For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that he’d never left London, that he’d been able to meet Molly in society and court her as he liked. She certainly brought a calmness wherever she went, and he found himself wishing they had met before the scandal that sent him abroad broke.
His mother and brother conspiring for him to take the fall for his brother’s indiscretion ensured he was no longer part of that family. It goaded his pride that he’d had to live on the funds his brother sent to ensure his survival for some years, but for the past eight, he’d not had to. Out of spite, perhaps, he still cashed those checks from London, but turned around and donated the funds to the women of Rome, who found themselves enceinte and without a protector or husband.
It was the least he could do to try to honor Laura in some way, make recompense to the woman his brother had ruined.
“Why are you not dancing, Mr. Armstrong? You look well enough that I do believe you will survive a turn about the dancefloor.”
He chuckled, reveling in her bright eyes and smiling mouth that he had an overwhelming urge to lean down toward and kiss. To test his theory that her lips were as soft and willing as he suspected. Or at least hoped.
“We’re back to Mr. Armstrong? I did hope you would call me by my given name as we agreed.”
She shrugged, taking a glass of champagne from a passing servant before taking a sip. “We’re not alone, which was part of the agreement. What if someone should hear?”
“No one shall hear with all the noise of this party.” He wanted to hear his name on her lips. For all his fleeing of England had left a sour taste in his mouth, having Molly here, an English woman who was sweet and kind, to hear his name spoken by her did odd things to his soul. Warmed it after ten years of being chilled.
“Very well,” she said, smiling at him, the loveliest blush speckling her cheeks. “I shall do as you ask, but should anyone step nearby or other guests join us, we must revert to our formal names.”
“Agreed,” he said, turning back to take in the guests lest someone spy his marked attention on the woman who was lodging under his roof. He ought to leave, go to a hotel and stay there for the duration of her stay, but he could not, and for reasons he’d not think too far upon at present. “You have not danced as much as I thought you would.”
“Oh, I’ve danced plenty, and you very well know it. Why I just finished a dance with Lord Brandon, whom I know from London. Do you know him?”
Hugh schooled his features as a knot of anxiety lodged in his gut. Was Lord Brandon in Rome? How did he not know? His attention slipped over the crowd, and it did not take him long to spy the earl, who was mutual friends with Duke Whitstone. A peer who was fully cognizant of why he’d fled his homeland.
“How do you know the earl?” he asked.
“Through the Duke and Duchess of Whitstone.”
Hugh kept surreptitiously checking to see where Lord Brandon was situated. He was happy to see that within a few minutes of spying him, the gentleman and his handsome Italian wife were taking their leave of their hostess. He breathed deep, thankful his night had not ended with a confrontation between him and his lordship.
“Tell me how you came to know the Duchess of Whitstone? From the correspondence from His Grace? You’re very close friends.”
“We went to school with each other in France. Each of us was sent away from home for various reasons. I, because my parents feared that I would throw myself away on some rogue for reasons I shall not bore you with. Even so, we all met at Madame Dufour’s Refining School for girls. Our friendship has never waned over the years, and although our lives do take us on different paths, we always are there for each other when needed.”
Hugh wished he had such friends. He’d lost so many of his set when his brother had forced his scandal onto his shoulders. In hindsight, he should have made his brother clean up his own mess. Face the matrons of the ton looking down their noses at him for his ungentlemanly behavior. But they had not. Oh no, the future Duke Henry could not be besmirched by a woman of loose morals, even if that woman had been a childhood friend and neighbor.
“They sound like the best of people. You are lucky to have such friends.”
She threw him a small smile, and the concern of him being outed to her for his brother’s sin lessened. “I believe I am.”
The strains of a waltz drifted across the warm night’s air, and Hugh placed down his glass of wine, bowing before Molly. “May I have this dance, Miss Clare?”
Without hesitation, she placed her silk-gloved fingers onto his palm, closing them tight about his hand. “I would like that very much, Mr. Armstrong.”
Hugh led her out onto the dancefloor beside the central fountain. They took their places on the makeshift ballroom floor and waited for the music to begin.
His fingers closed about her waist, the tulle that sat over her emerald-green gown shimmered under the stars and hundreds of candles that the Costa family’s servants had placed about the room. He pulled her close, not missing the moment her eyes flared at his action. As close as they now stood, it was not as close as he would like.
The gown was soft under his touch, her waist small and delicate. The music started, and he whirled her into the steps, spinning them before waltzing about the room. The scent of jasmine teased his senses, and he studied her hair a moment, wondering if that was why she smelled so damn good.
“You dance very well, Mr. Armstrong. I suspect you had dance lessons as a young man.”
He’d had dance lessons for a lot longer than that. As a duke’s son, no child of his father would be lacking in ballroom etiquette or grace. He’d known how to dance and dance well since he was in short coats. “I do try to ensure I never tread on any of my partner’s toes. I hope not to disappoint you, Miss Clare.”
She glanced up at him, their gazes clashed, and for the life of him, he could not look away. Her eyes, sharp and quick, watched him with utter conviction. He realized he never wanted to be looked upon any other way from Molly.
“Now, I only have to fear that I shall tread on yours. I do hope that is not the case,” she said, laughing a little at her quip.
She was all womanly curves, tempting and a stark reminder of all that he’d lost by fleeing to Rome all those years ago. Had he stayed in London, there was little doubt that he would have married by now. Settled down with a woman such as the one in his arms and had a handful of children. He’d always wanted a family, his father had been loving, and he wanted to be just like his sire.
Hugh sighed and concentrated on the dance, not wanting to dwell on the past. He wanted to enjoy himself and give Molly a pleasant evening that was just as enjoyable as her day was.
“You have proven yourself to be just as apt at dancing as me. Why these last two turns about the room, and you have not injured my feet once.”
“I confess, I too have had many years of practice. I’m sure it will not surprise you to know that I’m not a woman in her first season. I’m eight and twenty. At that age, I do believe I could become a master of dancing and give instruction.”
Hugh pulled her close as he guided them about a turn at one end of the room. The atrium ballroom was a crush, beeswax candles lay within the sconces on the wall, making the makeshift ballroom magical.
“You are not ancient at eight and twenty, Molly. If we’re declaring our ages, I must advise you that I’m two and thirty. I hope you do not think that too old for a woman such as yourself.” Hugh glanced over Molly’s head, not wanting to see if she was shocked or delighted by his words. Words that he’d not thought to utter. He would need to be better behaved before he did say something that had her packing her bags and heading back to England.