Duel of Hearts by Anita Mills Page A

resist the urge to giggle. Her headdress bobbing with every dip of her head, the old lady craned her neck to greet her great-nephew.
    â€œDear boy! I vow I feared that you would miss your own betrothal party, and Bucky and I should look ridiculous without you! And this is Miss Cole?” The black eyes traveled sharply over Leah as though she could count every penny expended on her gown, and then she smiled. “Charmed to make your acquaintance, my dear—truly I am. I’d not thought to see Tony leg-shackled before his dotage, you know—made me fear the end of the Barsetts.” Extending two fingers to be shaken, she dipped her turban again in approval. But the duchess’s next words made Leah stiffen as the old woman spoke lower to Tony. “She will do, I think. No, no, do not take offense, my dear,” she told Leah. “One never knows until one sees one.”
    â€œOne what?” Leah’s voice was deceptively sweet as she faced the old woman. “A Cit?” She could feel the viscount’s arm tense beneath her fingers, but his determined smile never betrayed him.
    â€œWell, she ain’t one of those milk-and-water misses, is she?” the duchess commented. “But she cannot care a chip what anyone says.” Turning once again to Leah, she bobbed her turban knowingly. “That’s not to say you won’t have much to bear with my scapegrace nevvy. He was right, you know—you are an Original. Bucky!”
    A rather colorless female of indeterminate age hastened to the duchess’s side, her pale blue eyes beaming at Tony. “Is this—”
    â€œMiss Cole,” the duchess cut in, “I present my companion, Mrs. Buckhaven—flighty, but she ain’t got a dissembling bone in her.”
    â€œMrs. Buckhaven.” Leah inclined her head politely.
    â€œOh, my lord, she is lovely,” the woman said breathily. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Cole.”
    Somehow Leah managed to smile beneath the open appraisals of the men and the cold stares of the women as the duchess’s guests filed past her. Tony, on the other hand, chatted pleasantly with people whose names were synonymous with the haut ton itself.
    The musicians struck up the first dance at almost the same time as the line ended, and Tony leaned to whisper for her ears alone, “You do waltz, do you not?”
    â€œWill you cry off if I do not?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen I suppose I waltz.”
    He led her through the expectant crowd and whirled her into his arms, and she immediately discovered the difference between an effeminate dance master and Anthony Barsett. At first, she hesitated, stiffening at the warm feel of his hands on her waist, but as he guided her gracefully across the polished floor in perfect time to the beautiful music, she began to relax. His arm tightened, pulling her closer until their bodies nearly touched. The fragrance of his Hungary water floated down to her, and despite its faintness, it was extremely pleasant. She was struck by two things as his arm tightened again and her gown brushed against his clothing—his strength and his obvious masculinity. At first, she found it difficult to concentrate on her steps within his embrace—it was no wonder that Byron had termed it the seductive waltz. Finally the loveliness of the music soothed her and she almost forgot her dislike of the man who held her.
    â€œLean into me—’tis a love match, remember.” He spoke softly, his breath on her ear sending a shiver down her spine.
    â€œI don’t—” Before she could protest, he held her even closer, until she could rest her head against his broad, muscular shoulder. “My lord, this is most improper,” she protested low. “I insist you give me room to breathe.”
    â€œTony,” he reminded her. “And you are breathing—I can feel it when you do.”
    She thought she ought to pull