The Duke's Quandary by Callie Hutton

a sip and headed to the window to stare out into the dark night.
    Lady Millicent’s coming out ball would begin his campaign to find a bride. Not just any bride, but the perfect one. If he was to live up to his father’s memory, he needed a woman beside him who would never make a social blunder, would always say and do the correct thing, and would prove to the world that the new Duke of Manchester had indeed stepped up.
    Slowly his sisters drifted into the room. Sybil and Sarah dressed in similar gowns of different colors, their excitement at the first ball of the Season palpable. They chattered on and on until he blocked out the sound. Within a few minutes, Abigail and Mary joined the group, and the noise of female laughter grew cacophonous.
    “Are we all here?” The duchess entered, still tugging on her gloves. She looked around the room. “Where is Penelope?”
    “She stopped in to see Marion. I thought she’d be down by now,” Sybil said.
    Drake hesitated as he was about to take the last sip of brandy. “Marion? Why would she be with Marion?”
    “Oh, she and Marion have become quite good friends.” Abigail stood and rearranged her skirts. “In fact, I think Marion’s been helping Penelope with her dance steps.”
    “Indeed? And here I thought I was her favorite dance partner.”
    Abigail snorted.
    Drake frowned in her direction. “In any event, someone should fetch her. It’s time we departed.”
    They moved to the entrance hall, the butler assisting the women with their shawls. Drake reached for his hat, then turned at a movement at the top of the stairs.
    Two dainty feet in white slippers began the descent. Drake stared, mesmerized, as the scalloped hem of delicate lace over emerald green silk entered his vision. Slowly, more of the body emerged, teasing him with a pale green ribbon underneath modestly covered breasts. The image presented such a vision in loveliness that he sucked in a lungful of air and held his breath.
    A long slender neck, with tendrils of reddish brown hair, lay gracefully against pale white skin. A lovely rounded chin, flushed cheeks, and green eyes with thick eyelashes behind spectacles, completed the tableau. He swallowed. His mouth was dry as a desert.
    Penelope was stunning, the perfect picture of English womanhood. All peaches and cream, with a slight tilt to her plump lips that told him she knew she looked beautiful. She flashed him a smile, then hesitated as she whipped her spectacles off.
    Terrified she would miss her step, he moved forward to take her hand, nudging Abigail aside, and sending her forward so she stumbled. Grabbing for his sister’s forearm with one hand, Drake grasped Penelope’s elbow with the other with such force that she missed the last two steps and tumbled straight into his arms in a flurry of silk and lace.
    …
    “Goodness, are you all right, dear?” The duchess’s hand flew to cover her mouth.
    Penelope looked up into hazel colored eyes, losing herself in their depths. The scent of bay rum and starched linens drifted to her nostrils from where their bodies meshed. Heat radiated off Drake’s chest, and even through his shirt, waistcoat, and jacket, the warmth burned her skin. Strong hands spanned her entire back, holding her fast.
    If there was any air to be had in the room, she had no idea how to access it. Her lungs seized and everything seemed to stand still, as if she and Drake stood in a painting, with his family viewing from a distance.
    “Did you hurt yourself?” His voice lowered to a husky rasp.
    His utterance broke the spell, and Penelope stared, horrified at her hands anchored on his shoulders, as if their bodies were preparing for a kiss.
    “No.” She dropped her hands and moved back. “I’m fine. Thank you for catching me.” Then, mortified at once again proving to this man that she was as graceless as a newborn foal, she adjusted her gown, ignoring the heat that moved up her body to set her face ablaze. She stuffed her