Page 3

Chapter Three

E velyn was smiling. No, she was smirking with the quiet confidence of a woman who had just won a private war. She wasn’t going to marry. Not Lord Wimberly, not anyone. And she had never felt freer.

She was enjoying herself. The silk of her gown whispered against the polished floor as she shifted her weight, the music rising in a swirl of violins and laughter.

Candlelight glittered off the chandelier overhead, casting warm reflections into the champagne flutes and onto the sequins stitched into her sleeves.

She stood near the punch table, fanning herself with more flair than heat, surrounded by the familiar hum of her friends, but before she could even reach for her glass, a gentleman approached her. Mr. Bartlesworth or maybe Barneswell, she could never remember which.

“Miss Ellory,” the aforementioned gentleman said in a hushed tone of voice, “would you honor me with this next dance?”

Evelyn’s smile faltered. Not again.

Her mind flicked through possible excuses: twisted ankle, faint headache, sudden desire to study scripture.

Truly any of them would do, but she was too slow because that was the moment the music wavered. It did not stop completely, however. It merely faltered, as if the violinist’s bow had trembled mid-note.

A hush swept the ballroom like a cold breeze sneaking through the drapes.

Fans slowed.

Conversations died on painted lips.

The soft rustle of skirts and the clink of glasses stilled.

“What is going on?”

Evelyn turned, confused, following the line of every widened eye and whispered gasp.

A man stood in the entryway. But evidently, not just any man.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of stark black that no gentleman dared wear to a ball.

His coat was sleek, severe even. There was something ancient in his bearing, something that pulled the air around him taut.

The very gold on the chandeliers seemed to dim beside the sheer, wintry gravity of his presence.

Evelyn’s fan stilled at the sight of him. She had never seen him before. Surely, she would have remembered. Every instinct in her body, the ones buried deep, passed down through generations of women who had survived, screamed at her to flee. To hide. To vanish.

And then he looked at her. His eyes were the color of a storm-torn sea and were now locked on hers. Everything in her went very still.

The gentleman beside her cleared his throat awkwardly. “I—Miss Ellory, you haven’t yet answered?—”

The stranger’s eyes, still locked on hers, narrowed before he moved.

He crossed the room without hurry but with a purpose that parted crowds like a knife through silk. No announcement had been made, but everyone seemed to know precisely who he was. Nobility rolled off him like smoke, thick, dark, and impossible to ignore.

Shockingly, he stopped directly before her. Evelyn’s heart thudded against her ribs.

“Leave,” the man said to Mr. Bartlesworth—or Barneswell—in a tone that did not rise but brooked no argument.

The poor young man stammered a confused, “Y-yes, of course,” and vanished into the crowd.

The stranger turned to her, his expression utterly composed.

“You are Miss Ellory,” he said.

It was not a question.

She could not speak as he extended his hand. He was waiting, and he seemed the kind not to wait too long for anything.

She stared at it then at him then back again, every nerve in her arm screaming in confusion. Something inside her, something proud and private, told her to refuse. But the rest of her? The rest of her couldn’t move.

Her hand lifted before she gave it leave. It hovered there for a breath too long. And then, with maddening gentleness, he closed his fingers over hers and led her silently to the floor, just as the music returned with a single pluck of a string.

The waltz began in a low, haunting swell of strings, rising around them like mist curling off the river at dawn. Her hand, still enclosed in his, felt hot despite the chill of his gloves.

He was taller than most dance partners. She had to tilt her chin to meet his gaze, and she hated that. She hated how aware she was of his nearness. The precision of his steps. The steadiness of his hand on her waist.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes with her smile taut and furious. She kept her voice low and clipped as she leaned in just enough to be heard.

“How dare you.”

His eyes glinted grey-blue, like steel wrapped in fog.

“Good evening to you, too, Miss Ellory.”

“What makes you think you can act this way?” she hissed, keeping her expression passably composed for the watching crowd. “You walked in like a storm and dismissed my partner like a valet.”

“I thought he looked uncomfortable,” he said mildly. “And dull.”

“ You are uncomfortable,” she snapped.

“Only slightly.” His hand shifted infinitesimally at her back. “And only because you keep glaring at me like you intend to stab me with your hairpin.”

She gritted her teeth. “I just might.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“Has anyone told you,” he said smoothly, “that you are very much like your mother?”

Evelyn drew back a half inch, looking utterly scandalized. “You presume to know Lady Brimwood?”

“I presume nothing,” he corrected her in an even tone of voice. “I merely observe and make conclusions. You must get your fire from her.”

Evelyn inhaled sharply. “You are insufferably rude.”

“And yet here we are,” he said, guiding her into a graceful turn. “You haven’t left the dance floor.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Because it would cause a scene.”

“Oh,” he murmured, lowering his head slightly, “and heaven forbid you cause a scene.”

Her lips parted in outrage. “You don’t know me.”

“I’m learning.”

“And I find your arrogance appalling.”

“I’ve been told worse.”

“I can only imagine.”

He didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. Evelyn saw it and hated that it sparked something like satisfaction in her chest. She’d danced with viscounts and barons, with marquesses and heirs. Not a single one had ever made her feel this furious.

Or this alive .

Still, she wasn’t about to let him know that.

“You’ve still not introduced yourself,” she said archly, lifting her chin. “Or is that a custom among the terribly rich and terribly rude?”

He leaned in again, close enough for her breath to catch.

“No,” he replied. “But I find it more entertaining when a lady discovers my name after she’s threatened me with blunt embroidery tools.”

Evelyn’s glare could have cracked crystal.

The final notes of the waltz drifted into stillness, the last lingering chord ringing like a held breath through the ballroom.

Evelyn stepped back, instinctively letting her hand fall from his though he retained her other at his elbow, leading her with practiced ease toward the edge of the floor.

She opened her mouth to demand his name at last, and this time, she was adamant not to let him deflect, but an interruption arrived in the form of her parents.

“Evelyn,” her mother breathed with concern, “darling, are you quite well? You look rather flushed.”

Her father squinted at the stranger beside her. “And who is this?”

Evelyn turned with her lips parting and her indignation ready to leap forth, but the man beside her spoke first. His words flowed as calmly and smoothly as a blade slipping through silk.

“I merely wished to become acquainted with my betrothed,” he said, “before the ceremony.”

Silence slammed into her like a falling chandelier.

Her spine straightened. “Your… pardon?”

Her mother clasped her hands with an expression of self-satisfied delight. “Aha! So this is the mysterious duke you told me about! Oh, I suspected it might be; what a marvelous surprise!”

The stranger—no, the Duke of Aberon—inclined his head, completely unbothered, as his gaze locked entirely on Evelyn. And now, everything made a sick, staggering sort of sense.

Her mother’s panic. The sudden end to her lectures. The disappearance of any mention of Lord Wimberly in the past two days. And that ridiculous visit to some distant relative’s estate which clearly had nothing to do with distant relatives at all.

Evelyn’s mouth was dry. This man was the one she had named in jest, in defiance. The one she claimed had ruined her.

He hadn’t said a word about it. In fact, he hadn’t even looked surprised.

She stepped back. “Excuse me. I need a moment… air.”

“Evelyn—” her mother began, but Evelyn was already moving, her slippers near silent across the marble.

She pushed open the balcony doors and slipped out into the cold night. The air hit her like water over a fire.

She gripped the stone railing, her knuckles white, trying to breathe around the storm swelling behind her ribs.

Her corset felt tighter than ever. Of all the names.

Of all the games she could have played. She had chosen a ghost, and now, the ghost was very much alive and staring at her like he’d already won.

Betrothed.

She bit down a scream, and that was when the door behind her opened. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. He didn’t speak at first. She imagined him just staring at her back, silent and waiting.

She turned slowly, glaring daggers. “You might have warned me.”

“You weren’t exactly interested in introductions,” he said coolly.

“You tricked me.”

“I escorted you through a waltz. You seemed to manage.”

She took a step forward, chin lifted. “I named you to get out of a marriage. It wasn’t real.”

“Now, it is,” he replied, maddeningly calm. “Congratulations.”

“You arrogant, impossible man!”

“You should be more careful with lies,” he said in an almost seductive whisper. “They have a habit of becoming inconvenient truths.”

She stared at him. He stood composed, not a hair out of place, as though not a single thing could ever rattle him. There was a quiet anger beneath his coolness, though. A deep, settled thing. He didn’t raise his voice a single time. He didn’t need to.

If she were quite honest, he frightened her. Not because he was cruel but because she couldn’t read a single thing that formed inside his mind.

“Why would you agree to this?” she asked, voice softening only slightly.

“Because you made it necessary.”

Her breath caught.

“Because,” he continued, “you threw my name to the wolves and left me no choice but to step out of the shadows I was quite content in.”

“I’ll undo it,” she pleaded quickly, her pride clawing at the edges of panic. “I’ll tell them it was all a lie?—”

He stepped closer. Just one step.

“No,” he said. “You won’t.”

She trembled. “Why not?”

His eyes, colder than the wind, studied her face. “Because then you’ll be ruined for nothing .”

The wind pulled at her skirts and the pale gold ribbons at her waist, but Evelyn hardly felt the cold. She was burning. She was humiliated, trapped, and furious in equal measure.

“I only chose your name because I thought you were dead! ” she snapped, her voice a low, vicious whisper.

His expression did not change. He regarded her steadily as the shadow of a smirk ghosted across his mouth.

“But I am not.”

Her hands clenched into fists. That cool, infuriating tone again. As though he were commenting on the weather.

“You can’t… this cannot happen. I will not let it happen,” she hissed. “I’ll find a way. I’ll make certain we never walk the aisle together.”

He tilted his head, thoughtful, almost amused. “What will you do? Claim another dead duke as your virtue’s ruiner? Shall we go down the peerage alphabetically?”

“You are vile.”

“No, I’m inconvenient. There’s a difference.”

“You think you’ve caught me in some net?—”

“I think,” he said, cutting across her, “that you’ve tangled yourself in your own threads, and now, you’re looking for someone else to blame.”

“Only my mother knows of the lie,” she said quickly, desperately. “No one else. I can still undo this.”

He stepped forward. “What lie is that, exactly?”

Her breath caught. The chill air was nothing now compared to the sensation of him near her… close… too close.

“Do you even know,” he asked, his voice much lower now and meant just for her, “what it means to be ruined, Miss Ellory?”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her cheeks went crimson.

He saw it. Worse yet, he savored it.

And then, for heavens sake, he moved even closer.

His gloved hand lifted, and with maddening gentleness, he tucked a wind-blown curl behind her ear. The tips of his fingers brushed the shell of it, warm and deliberate.

Evelyn swayed, despite herself. Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Her throat felt dry. And that smile, that half-formed, mocking, knowing smile, still danced in his eyes.

“I—” she began, but she forgot what she meant to say.

She should have stepped away, but she didn’t.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. She felt it. Oh, God, how she felt it, like a touch. And her lashes fluttered. Her chin lifted, instinct betraying her resolve. Her lips parted.

He leaned in, and her breath caught. Then, just a single inch from her lips, he stopped. She could feel his breath now, spilling all over her lips. She thought her heart might tear out of her chest.

But he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he whispered so quietly that she nearly thought she imagined it. “I am going to enjoy being married to you, Evelyn.”

She barely registered the shock before he pulled back, slow and unhurried. And with one last unreadable look, he turned, stepped through the balcony doors, and disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving her breathless and absolutely seething.

She knew she could not marry this man, for she also knew what was waiting for her.