Marry Christmas. Jane Goodger

smiled wryly. “Then we are in agreement on that point, at least.”

      Elizabeth fiddled with the cord of her dance card nervously, until she realized what she was doing and dragged her hands to her sides.

      “Do you ride?” the duke asked.

      “I adore riding my bicycle,” Elizabeth answered with out thinking. “Oh, you meant a horse. I have been on two horses in my life and was completely terrified both times.” The duke looked slightly disappointed, as she thought he might. “Do many women ride in England?” she asked, feigning ignorance. In her short time in England the year before she had been amazed at the horsemanship nearly all the women displayed.

      “Every woman rides in England,” he said dryly.

      Elizabeth suddenly felt overwhelmed by everything she did not know about living in England and being a duchess. She hadn’t gotten past the idea of not marrying Henry, never mind what her day-to-day life would be as a duchess. Would she sit on a throne and look down upon her subjects with a frown, commanding them to do her bidding? Would she sit about planning balls and soirees? Would this be her life? It seemed gloomy and interminably boring to her.

      “You’ve never been on a fox hunt, then.”

      He might have asked if she’d gone to the moon. “No.

      Not a one.”

      “Good,” he surprised her by saying. “Not much for the hunt, to be honest, though you’ll find many are in England. But you must learn to ride. Absolutely.” He said it with a smile, but he sounded so imperious she felt her anger piqued.

      “I don’t care to learn. I truly don’t see the need with motorcars becoming more in vogue. And, of course, bicycles. It’s marvelous exercise and when you’re done with it, you simply put it away. Without feeding it or fueling it. Have you ever been on a bicycle, Your Grace?”

      Rand looked down at the stubborn turn of her face and suppressed a chuckle. She really was trying to thwart him at every turn, and instead of being annoyed with her, he found her charming. It was difficult to believe this was the same girl he’d had an agonizing dinner with, one who sat stiffly and whose addition to the conversation was a sedate nod. “A bicycle? No. I have not had the chance to try.”

      “Well, riding a bicycle is absolutely imperative,” she said, sounding as lofty as he had insisting she learn to ride a horse.

      He grinned down at her and she smiled back. “Touché,” he said, doffing an imaginary hat. Her eyes sparkled, even though she was trying valiantly not to smile. It was almost as if she’d made a pact with herself not to like him no matter what he did. No woman, at least none he’d ever heard of, had disliked him. Edward would certainly have told him if one had.

      “Ah. Our waltz is next,” he said as the last strains of the country dance sounded.

      Elizabeth gave him a startled look, which she quickly masked. Her face completely expressionless, she put a hand lightly on his arm as he led her out to the floor where they awaited the first strains of the Blue Danube.

      He nearly smiled again when he realized he might as well have been dancing with a phantom, her touch was so light. Suddenly he decided to have none of it, and as the orchestra began to play, he swirled her about, forcing her to either stumble or grab on for her very life.

      “There you go,” he said grimly. “You have not melted from my touch.”

      Her cheeks flamed making her look even more beautiful, and it struck Rand that if he had to marry some one, he was damned lucky to be marrying such a beautiful girl. “You should get used to this,” he told her.

      She looked up at him and for the first time he realized her blue eyes were speckled with green flecks.

      “Used to dancing? I can assure you, Your Grace, that dancing and its many forms has been drilled into me since childhood.”

      “No, that is not what I meant. Used to touching me,” he said smoothly, and only grinned wider when she stiffened. He knew he should not torture the girl, but acting as if he were the very devil and not a rather nice man who happened to be a duke was beginning to grate.

      “It is difficult to dance the waltz when you are as pliant as a statue,” he went on. “I could kiss you until you relax, but I daresay your mother would not approve.”

      The nostrils in the small nose flared. “I would not approve,” she said haughtily.

      “Oh,” he said, bringing his voice down a bit, “I think you would.” And then he laughed because she looked so outraged it was all he could do.

      “You enjoy making fun of people.”

      “Actually, I never make fun of people. Perhaps you bring out the devil in me, Miss Cummings.”

      “He must be very near the surface if I do,” she said, which only brought about another laugh.

      Someone watching them from the perimeter of the ballroom would have thought them a delightful couple having a delightful time. They would note Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks, her shining eyes, how closely she danced with the duke. And they would also comment on the way the duke kept smiling, how his eyes drifted over her face as if he very much liked what he saw. They would have been wrong, at least halfway.

      Elizabeth was not enjoying the dance. The duke was absolutely insufferable. Intolerably so. This must be the longest waltz Johann Strauss had written. It seemed to go on interminably. While all the time the duke laughed at her. She could not wait until the last strains of the waltz sounded and she could escape outside where her cheeks could cool and where she could forget the way just the thought of the duke kissing her made her entire body heat. With embarrassment, of course. How dare he be so forward with her? It was not as if they were already formally engaged. She wondered if he talked to all women so.

      Finally, the dance ended and she stepped immediately from him, dropping her hands to give a brief curtsy. “There’s Maggie. If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace,” she said, and turned away before he had a chance to even thank her for the dance.

      When Elizabeth reached her friend, she grabbed her arm and led her toward her mother.

      “What’s wrong?” Maggie asked. “Did you see us dancing? Isn’t he handsome? And an earl, too. I’ve never danced with royalty. Do you think he’s met the queen?”

      “He’s not royalty, he’s a member of the peerage. Whatever that means. And I’m sure I don’t know who he’s met,” Elizabeth said, losing patience with her friend.

      “Or care,” Maggie said astutely. “What is wrong?”

      “I want to get out of this ballroom. Please come with me for a walk outside.”

      A look of real concern crossed Maggie’s face. “Of course.”

      “Mother, Maggie and I are going to take a turn ’round the garden,” Elizabeth said when they’d reached her mother.

      “Very well. And, Elizabeth, I thought you and the duke made a fine couple. Many have remarked on it.”

      Elizabeth said nothing, simply turned away with Maggie on her arm. When they finally reached the terrace and were away from the crush, Maggie gave her arm a squeeze.

      “Is he really that awful?” she asked.

      “Yes,” Elizabeth said, staring determinedly to the Atlantic. And then, “No. He’s not completely awful. I’ve told you that. But he’s insufferable and he enjoys making me angry. I think if I knew him simply as an acquaintance I wouldn’t even like him and I certainly wouldn’t want to marry him.” She felt her eyes begin to burn and squeezed them shut. She would not cry, it solved nothing and only showed weakness of spirit.

      “Come on,” Elizabeth said, “let’s walk to the gazebo.

      It’s so hot in the house, I feel as if I might faint.”

      “I