“Shall you?” he murmured.

She straightened her shoulders. “I shall.”

His eyes, which were a rather legendary shade of blue, narrowed a bit. In humor, not in anger, which was probably all the worse. He was laughing at her. Amelia did not know why it had taken her so long to realize this. All these years she’d thought he was merely ignoring her-

Oh, dear Lord.

“Lady Amelia,” he said, the slight nod of his head as much of a bow as he must have felt compelled to make, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Elizabeth and Grace turned to her, both of them smiling serenely with expectation. They had played out this scene before, all of them. And they all knew how it was meant to unfold.

Especially Amelia.

“No,” she said, before she could think the better of it.

He blinked. “No?”

“No, thank you, I should say.” And she smiled prettily, because she did like to be polite.

He looked stunned. “You don’t wish to dance?”

“Not tonight, I don’t think, no.” Amelia stole a glance at her sister and Grace. They looked aghast.

Amelia felt wonderful.

She felt like herself, which was something she was never allowed to feel in his presence. Or in the anticipation of his presence. Or the aftermath.

It was always about him. Wyndham this and Wyndham that, and oh how lucky she was to have snagged the most handsome duke in the land without even having to lift a finger.

The one time she allowed her rather dry humor to rise to the fore, and said, “Well, of course I had to lift my little baby rattle,” she’d been rewarded with two blank stares and one mutter of “ungrateful chit.”

That had been Jacinda Lennox’s mother, three weeks before Jacinda had received her shower of marriage proposals.

So Amelia generally kept her mouth shut and did what was expected of her. But now…