Page 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

T he waltz soared into a glittering crescendo, and Evelyn turned her head just in time to see the Viscount of Firth descend the staircase like a stage actor arriving too late for the final act. He was alone.

Evelyn’s breath caught, her gloved fingers tightening imperceptibly around her fan. Her gaze swept the entrance once more, but Matilda was not there. No flash of pale lavender silk which was Matilda’s favorite shade. No familiar laugh. No hesitant smile. There was only him .

And suddenly, the air inside Lady Weatherby’s ballroom grew thin.

The Viscount’s appearance was precisely as she remembered: painfully polished.

He was all gleaming in royal blue satin and excessive confidence, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips as though he were enjoying a private jest at everyone else’s expense.

A jeweled pin glimmered at his cravat, unnecessarily large like everything about him.

Pretension embodied.

He moved with calculated grace, the arrogance in his posture suggesting that he still believed half the ton owed him reverence for some obscure, possibly fabricated, link to royal blood.

Evelyn had always thought he looked like a portrait of a man who imagined himself a king but lacked the presence to rule anything save his own mirror.

Her mother’s voice broke through the crackling tension.

“No Matilda,” Lady Brimwood murmured, worry threading through her tone like a pulled stitch. “Odd. They were meant to arrive together.”

Evelyn’s mouth was dry. “Perhaps she was delayed.”

Perhaps she was forbidden.

She saw it now, clear as a slap to the face, how very little she’d seen of her sister.

Not since that wretched day the Viscount returned with Matilda on his arm like a prize, smug and victorious.

Evelyn had never truly spoken to her since it all happened.

And now, regret pooled in her throat like ash.

She should have asked the questions that tormented her night after night. She should have written. She should have demanded answers.

A flash of green caught her eye as the Viscount made his way toward them, gliding across the ballroom like a serpent through grass. Every pair of eyes turned to follow his path. Evelyn felt her mother straighten beside her, her spine rigid with polite anticipation.

He reached them and bowed low, all in unnecessary flourish. “Lady Brimwood. Your Grace.”

He looked up at Evelyn then, his eyes gleaming like glass, reflecting nothing but his own satisfaction.

“May I say, Your Grace, you are a vision,” he said, his voice a velvet drawl. “It appears marriage has only added to your brilliance. The stars must truly envy your radiance tonight.”

Evelyn fought the urge to gag. She managed a smile instead, as sharp as a knife, civil and entirely unamused. “And you, My Lord, are as flattering as ever.”

“I try.” He turned then to Lady Brimwood. “I’m afraid Matilda was feeling somewhat… indisposed. She sends her regrets. I came on our behalf.”

Evelyn felt her stomach twist.

Indisposed or locked away?

“Oh,” her mother murmured with concern flitting across her features. “That is unfortunate. I hope she recovers quickly. Will she not come later?”

The Viscount gave a polite, indifferent shrug. “I fear not. Best to rest, you understand. Fragile things, nerves.”

Evelyn’s fingers curled at her side. Matilda had never been fragile. Nervous, yes. Gentle, often. But not fragile. The lie rang clear as a bell.

And then, as if he sensed the moment and wished to ruin it completely, the Viscount turned to Evelyn with an oily smile.

“Would Your Grace honor me with this dance?”

A dance?

Evelyn thought she didn’t hear that well. Dance? With him? It took all her restraint not to recoil. Her mouth opened, the refusal perched on her tongue like a falcon ready to strike, but before the words could take flight, her mother laid a gentle, warning hand on her arm.

“Evelyn,” she whispered, “we mustn’t make a scene.”

Her jaw tightened. Her heart thundered. But she knew what her mother meant. Declining a dance without cause was not just rude, it was a declaration, and this night was too public.

She looked up at the Viscount. Every inch of her screamed no.

But she dipped into a small, formal curtsy, teeth clenched behind her smile, feeling the stab of each of these subsequent words she was forced to speak aloud. “Of course, My Lord.”

He offered his arm. She took it. And as he led her onto the ballroom floor beneath chandeliers that glittered like watching eyes, Evelyn vowed that whatever secrets he was keeping, whatever horrors he had locked behind Matilda’s closed door…

she would uncover them. Even if it meant dancing with the devil.

The moment they stepped onto the dancing area, the violins soared.

Evelyn placed her hand upon the Viscount of Firth’s shoulder though every bone in her body resisted the touch.

His gloved hand found her waist with too much familiarity, the pressure just a shade heavier than was proper.

They began to move, following a mechanical waltz beneath the chandeliers.

For a moment, they danced in silence. The polite kind, the brittle veneer of civility stretched over a chasm of loathing.

Then he leaned in.

“You know,” he murmured, the scent of cardamom clinging to his breath, “I always did think you would come around. A woman like you, so sharp, so fiery… it’s the flame that licks the blade, not the hearth that keeps it. You were meant for more than polite titles and dreary dukes.”

Evelyn kept her smile frozen in place though she longed to break his nose with her fan.

“Is that what you told my sister?” she replied sweetly. “Before or after you dimmed the flame in her eyes?”

He chuckled, and the sound grated her. “Matilda is… pliable. Obedient. Not every woman can manage boldness as well as you, my dear. But still… I wonder.” His gaze swept over her face, hungry and vile.

“Have you reconsidered? Running away, I mean. Or perhaps, now that you’re a duchess, you’ve simply decided you’d rather be familiar with power before deciding who wields it best.”

Evelyn’s blood turned to ice. Her steps faltered for half a beat before she righted them, her fingers tightening on his sleeve.

“You are filth,” she said, the words precise, controlled, but venomous. “My husband is twice the man you will ever be. And I would rather dance with the hounds in Hyde Park than be anything to you.”

His face changed. His charm evaporated like fog at noon, revealing the shadow beneath, revealing the predator in the parlor. His grip on her waist became punishing, his smile now a mask pulled tight over rage.

“You’ll regret that,” he said softly, venom threading each word. “You always did have a mouth that moved faster than your sense. You’ll find London is not so safe for arrogant little duchesses with scandal on their heels and no family willing to shield them. I could?—”

But he never finished.

Another voice, low and calm, cut through the swell of strings like a blade through silk.

“I believe you’ve had your turn, My Lord. Might I steal my wife for the next?”

The Viscount’s head snapped around. Evelyn didn’t need to look. The sound of that voice rushed through her like a sigh of relief and a crack of thunder all at once.

Robert.

She turned, and there he was, clad in black like vengeance itself, eyes trained on the Viscount with a polite smile that didn’t reach their cold, assessing depths.

The Viscount hesitated. The other dancers spun on, unaware that a battle had formed in the quiet beneath chandeliers. Evelyn could feel the tension stretch like a taut string between them.

Robert stepped forward, extending his hand to her. “My dear?”

Her answer was silent but final. She slipped free of the Viscount’s grip and into Robert’s, as if she’d been waiting for rescue, not because she was weak but because the man beside her was the storm she would rather ride into battle with than face the world alone.

The Viscount’s jaw flexed. He gave a tight, shallow bow.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

And stepped aside.

Robert’s hand slid to her back, and they began to dance.

Robert guided her into the rhythm of the waltz, the warmth of her hand settling into his like it belonged there.

She looked up at him, and her voice was quiet when she spoke. “Thank you.”

He arched a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin. “It looked like you needed rescuing.”

Her lips curved, that particular smirk of hers, which was sharp and sweet and absolutely maddening. “I had everything perfectly under control.”

“Of course, you did.” His voice was low, amused. “You only looked one breath away from clawing his eyes out.”

She laughed then, a breathy, vibrant sound that sent something warm rippling through his chest. She fit against him so well in the dance, yet she was anything but delicate.

Her presence filled the space between them, fierce and real, her scent wrapped in lavender and something darker, something undeniably her .

His gaze dropped to hers again, lingering. “I heard what you said to him.”

“Oh?” Her lashes lifted in mock innocence.

“I’m proud of you.” His voice dropped, more intimate now. “You were magnificent. Watching you put him in his place like that… I’ve never been so glad you married me.”

For just a second, she blinked. It seemed that he had caught off guard. But then her eyes glinted, wicked as ever. “Don’t let it go to your head, Your Grace.”

He chuckled. “Too late.”

She tilted her head, drawing him in with the mischief that always danced just beneath her words. “I wonder if you’d still be proud if I’d slapped him with my fan.”

“Utterly,” he murmured, his fingers resting more firmly at her waist. “But I’d have had to pretend to be horrified. Society demands it.”

They circled the ballroom, the music spinning around them, but Robert only saw her. He always only saw her. Every inch of her sparkled with life: the way her lips quirked, the way she leaned in just slightly when teasing him, the way her hand was so sure in his.

“You know,” she said, affecting a thoughtful tone, “you’re very smug for a man who arranged all his inkwells by height.”

He stiffened. “They were ordered by function.”

“You had them in categories.”

“Because it made sense.”

She smiled sweetly. “One of your maids moved them, didn’t she?”

He narrowed his eyes, half-glowering, half-bemused. “She kept shifting the sand tray two inches to the left. Two inches. I thought I was losing my mind.”

“Monstrous.”

“She also placed my ledger vertically . Like a novel.”

Evelyn gasped, mockingly scandalized. “A novel ? Robert, say it isn’t so.”

He exhaled through his nose, biting back a grin though it tugged relentlessly at his lips. “I almost had to dismiss her.”

“Oh, I would have had her drawn and quartered.”

He met her eyes again, and this time he didn’t look away.

She was laughing, but he saw the flicker of concern still beneath the humor.

The shadow of the Viscount’s presence was still hovering.

Robert hated that he’d let that man come within an arm’s reach of her.

Hated the gall of it, the arrogance, the threat .

But she’d handled it with wit and fire and steel. And heaven help him, he was helpless before her.

He eased her closer, just slightly, careful not to attract notice from the rest of the room, and murmured, “You know, Evelyn… it terrifies me sometimes. The man I am with you.”

Her teasing faded just a shade, the levity in her gaze deepening into something more fragile, but she didn’t flinch from it.

Instead, she brushed his chest with her gloved fingertips and whispered, “Good. You should be terrified.”

And just like that, the spark was back. He smiled, and the rest of the ballroom seemed to fade away.