“I did, and we shall discuss later how irritated I am that you are forcing me to change them.”
“I don’t need you to dance with me,” she whispered. “West can dance with me.”
“I’m not sure that will solve the issue of him looking like he’d like to steal you away,” Mara said, altogether too thoughtfully.
Duncan’s reply was more forthright. “No.”
“No?” she asked, taken aback by his quick refusal.
“I’m not titled,” he said. “You can’t be seen dancing with me.”
How silly. “But you’re the man who is restoring my reputation.”
“Among others,” Temple interjected.
“You mean others like you?”
“Your Grace,” Temple and Duncan prompted in unison.
Georgiana shook her head, confused. “You needn’t call me that; I am not a duchess.”
The trio looked at her as though she were mad. And that’s when they all realized what was happening.
“Christ,” said Duncan.
“Are you drunk?” asked Temple.
She put her fingers to her lips. “It’s possible.”
The men looked at each other, then back to her. “How in hell are you drunk?”
“I imagine it happened when I consumed too much alcohol,” she said smartly.
Mara snickered.
“Why?” Temple asked.
“I enjoy champagne.”
“You loathe champagne,” Temple said.
She nodded. “Was it Marie Antoinette with the champagne?” These three would know.
Temple looked as though he might murder her. Duncan watched her carefully, as though she might turn into some sort of animal. “She’s responsible for the champagne glass.”
“Yes! The glass is the shape of her breast!” It was all coming back, if a touch too loudly.
“Christ.” Temple said.
“Perhaps we should limit the use of the word breast in public,” Duncan said, dryly. “Why don’t you tell us why you felt the need to drink in excess?”
“I was nervous!” she said in her own defense, then realized what she’d admitted. She looked to Duncan, whose expression had gone from surprised to smug. Damn. “Not because of you.”
“Of course not,” he said, meaning the opposite.
Temple looked about. “I don’t want to know anything about that. Stop talking.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Your Grace.” She emphasized the title. She returned her attention to Duncan. “There are any number of men who make me nervous.”
“Jesus, Anna, stop talking.”
“Don’t call her that,” Duncan said, and the warning in his voice was enough to draw the attention of both her and Temple.
“It’s her name.”
“Not here, it’s not. And not really, it’s not.” Duncan and Temple stared each other down, and something happened between them. Finally, Temple nodded.
“William,” Mara said quietly. “We are making it worse. You are not supposed to be so . . .”
“Boorish with me,” Georgiana said.
Mara tilted her head. “I was going to say ‘familiar.’”
She was not incorrect. The Duke of Lamont was not supposed to know her well enough to scold her on a balcony.
Temple was quiet for a long moment before he acquiesced to his wife. It was something that never failed to impress Georgiana—the massive man entirely engrossed in his wife. He looked to Duncan. “You’re supposed to keep her reputation intact.”
“All of Society knows I have a vested interest in her. They won’t be surprised in the slightest by our conversing,” he said. “They shall think she’s thanking me for my hand in her blossoming acceptance.”
“I am standing right here,” she said, supremely irritated by the way the group seemed to have forgotten that fact.
Temple thought for a long moment, and then nodded. “If you do anything to hurt her reputation—”
“I know, I shall answer to Chase.”
Temple’s gaze flickered from Duncan to Georgiana. “Forget Chase. You shall answer to me. You get her home.”
She smirked at Duncan. “No messages for Chase tonight. You’ll have to deal with me, only.”
Duncan ignored her, extending his arm. “My lady?”
She warmed at the words, hating the way they brought her such keen pleasure. She set her hand on his arm, letting him guide her a few steps down the balustrade before she pulled back. “Wait.” She turned back. “Your Grace.” He raised his brows in question. She returned on Duncan’s arm, spoke softly. “The Earl of Wight’s daughter. Sophie.”
“What of her?”
“She is dancing with Langley, but deserves a dance with someone tremendous.” She mentally cataloged the single men in attendance. “The Marquess of Eversley.” Eversley was a long-standing member of the Angel, rich as Croesus and handsome as sin—a rake to end all rakes. But he’d do as Temple asked. And Sophie would have a lovely memory of the evening.
Temple nodded. “Done.” He and Mara were gone, returned to the ball, leaving no trace of their time on the balcony.
Her good work for the evening complete, she returned her attention to Duncan, who asked, “Lady Sophie?”