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“These modern women with their irrational notions,” the Viscount spat, “about women’s choices and freedom — can only lead to chaos. It will take a strong hand to rein such a mind back into place.”

“You mean your own particular brand of order?” The Duke’s smile was harsh and cold. “How fascinating that you equate respect with chaos, Crowton.”

The ash crumbled unnoticed as Nicholas fought the urge to storm through the hedge and demonstrate exactly why his reputation in certain boxing clubs was spoken of with respect. But instead, he forced himself to remain still, letting the rage settle into something colder, more focused.

Marian had grown accustomed to fending off unwanted advances, but the Viscount’s persistence bordered on the absurd. Time and again, she sidestepped his clumsy attempts to corner her, weaving through the ballroom with practiced ease. Each evasion was met with yet another advance, but she remained composed, her smile unwavering and her refusals firm yet polite.

Until she could not.

A misstep — no, merely an ill-fated moment of hesitation — found her trapped near the edge of the ballroom. A flicker of unease coiled in her stomach even before she felt the firm grasp of his hand around her wrist. She turned, schooling her features into calm indifference though the false civility in his bow and the hunger in his smile sent a chill along her spine.

“A dance, perhaps, Lady Marian?” His voice, deceptively light, carried an undercurrent that made her skin crawl.

She lifted her chin, refusing to shrink before him. “I believe I was quite clear in my earlier refusal, My Lord.” The ice in her tone should have been warning enough.

“Clarity,” he mused, tightening his grip, “is not always the same as wisdom, Lady Marian. Come now, surely you can spare one dance.”

She forced her hand to remain limp within his hold, refusing to struggle. “As you can see, My Lord, my dance card is quite full.”

“And yet, I see you standing here alone. Surely you understand that certain… social obligations cannot be avoided forever.”

“The only obligation I recognize, My Lord,” she said coolly, “is to my own conscience which, at present, strongly advises me to maintain my distance from the dance floor.”

His fingers flexed around her wrist, the pressure biting now. “Your conscience? How charmingly novel. And what of your reputation? What of your family’s good name? Are these not more worthy of consideration that your fanciful conscience?”

Her spine went rigid. Anger burned away the first flickers of fear, replacing them with something sharper, more resolute. “My family’s good name?” she echoed, her voice steady despite the storm building inside her. “How generous of you to concern yourself with it, My Lord. Though I cannot help but wonder — does your concern extend to all the ladies of the ton, or am I singularly blessed with such… special attention?”

The Viscount’s smile thinned. “I think you misunderstand my intentions, my dear. It is —”

“I mistake nothing,” she cut in. “Your intentions, My Lord, are as transparent as they are unwelcome.”

A dull flush crept along his cheekbones. His fingers, whitening against her wrist, were the only betrayal of his anger he could not keep from showing.

“You forget yourself once more. Lady Marian.” His voice, now a hiss, carried an edge of threat. “I had thought to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself after our… unfortunate encounter at the picnic by the lake. Your clever tongue may amuse certain members of society, but I assure you, I am not among them, and my patience now grows thin.”

She knew fear well, but she had long since learned to swallow it whole. “How fortunate then,” she murmured, forcing a serenity she did not feel, “that I have never sought to be amusing, My Lord.”

“No?” His smile darkened. “Then perhaps you find yourself in need of a lesson.”

She did not hear Nicholas approach, but she felt the shift in the air — the charged stillness that signaled his presence before she laid eyes on him. A strange relief warred with her pride, but the words hanging between her and the Viscount had already made a mockery of any expectation of rescue. Even so, something in her recognized the moment he stepped forward, the moment his silent promise shattered the distance he had so carefully maintained.

Later that night, when she finally found a moment of solitude at the edge of the ballroom, she let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding in. The evening had taken its toll, the thrill of the dance, the sharpness of unwanted attentions, the weight of expectations pressing heavy upon her. She stared out at the flickering candlelight, only half aware of the music still playing and the laughter ringing through the air.

She did not hear Nicholas approach this time either. She only felt the brush of his presence, the heat of it as he passed by just a fraction too closely.

“My room. Tonight.” The words were a whisper against the air between them, cool and commanding. “There is something we must discuss.”

She turned sharply, her eyes flashing with surprise — but before she could demand an explanation, he was already gone, swallowed by the crowd. Fury sparked in her chest, outrunning the remnants of her shock.

How dare he?

And yet, even as she bristled at the audacity, a quiet, insidious thought whispered beneath her indignation: she would go.

CHAPTER 10

“Iwas beginning to think you would not come.” Nicholas’s voice drifted through the shadows of the corridor that led to his bedchamber — rich, dark, and slightly dangerous. Marian stood in the doorway, her heart thundering against her ribs as she stepped inside, and her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. A single candelabra cast dancing shadows across the walls, transforming familiar shapes into mysterious silhouettes that seemed to watch her every move with quiet judgement.

“Then you clearly do not know me very well,” she replied, proud of how steady her voice remained despite the tremor in her hands. She was acutely aware of the impropriety of her position — standing in a gentleman’s private chambers, unchaperoned and well past the acceptable hours of visitation. The knowledge sent a delicious shiver of rebellion down her spine.