The thought clearly amused him.
"To lie would only make me seem an idiot. You're a veritable product of Michelangelo's imagination, and you know it." Her fingers squeezed the muscled flex of his upper arm, which was hidden beneath his coat. "Carved of chilling perfection, radiant with an unearthly strength and power. Just as cold as David himself and twice as untouchable. Indeed, one would expect to find more warmth in the statue's caress."
"Mmm." His head lowered, his lips brushing the curls in front of her ears. "But we both know that's not the truth, don't we, Adele?" His thumb stroked the pulse in her other wrist, a lash of sensation. "Or do you not recall yesterday afternoon in the carriage?"
Her pulse started to race. Of course she recalled it. How could she not?
The memory of his touch had haunted her all bloody night long, whilst he was off seeing to "some business."
"Perhaps I should remind you?"
"Perhaps we should dance?" she blurted.
There was that smile again as he led her onto the dance floor.
She'd never dared dream of finding herself in her husband's arms—dreams were for foolish girls, not those who'd tasted the darkness that could be found in one of the Echelon's ballrooms.
And yet, it was startling to realize how easily she fit there.
"Considering you prefer not to dance, you're very good at it," she admitted in a begrudging tone. Of course he'd mastered the art. He took the lead with a control and mastery that left her no choice but to keep up.
"My mother would have been pleased to hear that. She spent a fortune on dance tutors when I was a youth."
Adele's curiosity pricked. She'd been all through Lady Hammersley's Guide to the Peerage and could trace his origins as well as she knew her own.
A minor son of the House of Malloryn, he'd surprised the entire Echelon when he'd steadfastly climbed his way to the head of the house upon the death of his father. Or murder, if one was being accurate, though the killer was never named.
There were several ways one could legitimately inherit in the Echelon: have the good fortune to be born as the eldest son of an eldest son; or duel your way to the top.
She'd heard rumors of a dozen duels fought to clear his path, alliances between cousins against him, betrayals, attempted assassinations he'd somehow survived.
And when his cousins all fell, Malloryn was the only one left standing.
The youngest duke to ever sit on the Council of Dukes.
Ruthless.
Dangerous.
And yet, utterly loyal to his queen.
But it was the little things she didn't know about him—that he'd had a mother who'd insisted on dance lessons for her son, despite knowing he'd most likely never inherit anything of value. She must have dreamed of great things for him, but Adele wondered what had driven him to survive those bloodstained years where he nearly lost everything.
"You're quiet."
"Just thinking," she admitted.
"A dangerous thing, in my experience. What are you thinking about?"
"How little I truly know of you."
He swept her through an elegant turn, his gloved hand resettling on her waist even as his thumb stroked her hip. "I thought it was the title that mattered. Not the man."
"The title is what every debutante dreams of. But the man intrigues. Everyone likes a good mystery."
"What do you want to know?"
Why did you agree to marry me?
He'd asked her a similar question on the day of their wedding.
And when she'd trapped him—running breathless and bloodied out of the gardens of a ball, straight into his arms—he'd maintained it was a matter of his honor being besmirched by her claims that he'd done it to her.
But he was the Duke of Malloryn.
If he could survive a dozen bloodthirsty cousins, then he could survive her lies.
And yet he'd allowed the engagement to stand. He'd done his duty and married her. And while their marriage was a thing of locked bedroom doors and aloof greetings in the hallway as they passed, he'd never actually punished her for the lie.
"I want to know—" Her courage failed her as they swirled between dancers. "—what your mother was like."
Malloryn's left brow flickered in surprise. "She was a baron's daughter who married into the ducal line. My father was far down the line of inheritance, but it was a good match between them. They seemed happy together. She died of consumption when I was sixteen. My father was inconsolable."
That was all very good, but.... "And how did her son fare?"
Their eyes met, and she saw the faint tightening of his mouth. "As well as could be expected."
A polite disengagement.
He may have decided to seduce her into bed—or whatever game he was playing—but the message was clear: she was not welcome behind those walls.
She would never be welcome.
Somehow, Adele managed to paste a smile on her lips. "Well, she would be pleased to know her lessons have not gone to waste. One could almost think you were born to play the role of duke."
A slight hesitation. "It was not what my parents aspired for me, but forced on me by circumstance."
There'd been a woman, she'd heard.
Another lord's thrall.
And the girl had died, and Malloryn swore bloody revenge and set about taking it on his own terms.
"And what of you?" he asked. Lights glittered as they twirled in elegant circles, but all she could see was the watchful glint of his eyes. "From what I understand, you haven't seen your mother in months."
Adele fought to contain her instinctive stiffening, but he noticed. He always did.
"It seems she and my father did not welcome the news of our marriage," she admitted carefully. "There is no love lost between me and my mother."
Or my father, truth be told.
But where Sir George Hamilton seemed content to pretend he'd never laid eyes upon her, Adele's mother was a different story.
The only time they spoke was when Lady Hamilton wanted more money.
Did Malloryn know of those exchanges?