Free Captive by Joan Johnston

Reeve Somers, the Duke of Braddock.
    Denbigh had killed the Duke of Braddock’s younger brother, Lord James, in a duel barely a year past. As a result, the two powerful men had become mortal enemies. It wasn’t bad enough she had landed the dangerous duke, she had thrown him—sharp teeth and all—to Denbigh’s innocent sister.
Good Lord
, she thought.
What have I done?
    On second thought, the two men’s enmity for each other was no reason, so far as Charlotte could see, to cheat Olivia of her chance to dance with a handsome man. And the duke was handsome, a striking contrast with his blond hair and blue eyes, to Denbigh’s black hair and silvery gray eyes.
    Charlotte met Olivia’s panic-stricken gaze and pleaded with her eyes for Livy to accept the duke’s offer.
Take a chance on life. Don’t let your brother’s disapproval keep you on the shelf
.
    Then, to everyone’s amazement—not least of all her brother’s—Lady Olivia Morgan stood and said, “I will be glad to dance with you, Your Grace.”
    “But—” Denbigh spluttered.
    Charlotte’s fingernails dug through three layers of cloth—her gloves and the earl’s snug velvet coat-sleeve and fine lawn shirt—to silence him. Her heart sank when she saw Braddock frown as Livy’sfirst two steps revealed her uneven, almost unsteady, gait.
    The duke took a step closer, offering his entire arm, rather than merely his hand, to support Livy. “You’re hurt,” he said. “I would be glad to sit out—”
    Before Charlotte could tell the blasted man that Livy yearned to dance, Livy surprised Charlotte by saying so herself.
    “It is a long-ago injury, Your Grace, and has healed as well as ever it will. I prefer to dance, if you please,” she said in a trembling voice.
    “Very well, then. Shall we?” The duke’s arm slid around Olivia’s slim waist, and the earl’s sister went whirling onto the dance floor, leaving Charlotte and the earl staring after them. Charlotte watched long enough to see that the duke was supporting Livy’s weight with the arm he had around her waist, pulling them almost indecently close. Lucky Livy.
    Charlotte grinned.
    Denbigh snorted.
    Before Charlotte could say another word, Denbigh circled his arm around her waist.
    “I thought I had to have permission from one of the patronesses to dance a waltz,” she protested.
    “While you were busy with that idiot Lord Fairchild earlier this evening, Lady Jersey gave permission,” Denbigh said through clenched teeth.
    Then they were waltzing, whirling around the ballroom at a dizzying speed. It was like floating, like flying, like heaven on earth—so long as she ignored the scowl on Denbigh’s face. And the fact she could have been an Indian pachyderm in his arms, for all the attention he gave her. His gaze was riveted on Braddock and his sister.
    Which wasn’t all bad, because it gave her a chance to look at his face up close without being observed. It wasn’t a bad-looking face, she supposed, but it would be vastly improved if he would smile more often. And she liked his eyes better when he was laughing. They turned a lighter, softer gray than the stormy color they were now, when he was angry.
    She purposely stepped on his toe, to get his attention.
    He took his eyes off his sister and Braddock barely long enough to say, “Remember to count, Charlotte,” and then swiveled his head to follow the other couple as they twirled past him.
    “Dancing is quite as nice as I thought it would be,” Charlotte said. “I thank you for the lessons.”
    “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Now stubble it.” He pulled her close to avoid a collision with Lord Bottomly and a giggling heiress.
    Charlotte was suddenly aware of her breasts crushed against Denbigh’s chest and the feel of his muscular thighs pressing against her own throughher gown. For the first time all evening, her bosom was definitely in no danger of escape from her bodice, yet she felt more exposed than ever. Her