Page 36

Chapter

Thirty-Five

THE LAST WALTZ

T he marble beneath our feet gleamed like still water, reflecting the brilliance of the ballroom chandeliers below. The grand staircase of Comingford House stretched out before us, less an entrance than a stage upon which, like it or not, we were about to perform.

“Her Grace, the Dowager Countess of Rosehaven,” the majordomo announced, his voice ringing down the gilded hall, “Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven, and Lady Chrysanthemum Rosehaven.”

At once, the ballroom fell silent.

Not the elegant hush of music fading or dancers pausing politely, but a stunned, breathless quiet, as if the entire assembly had collectively forgotten how to blink. Heads turned. Fans drooped. A few glasses were set down with audible clinks. The air thrummed with the weight of gossip barely restrained.

At my side, Grandmother inhaled, drawing herself to full height, chin tilted with majestic disdain. “Well,” she said in a voice dry as vintage sherry, “either they think we’ve come to confess, or to start another scandal.”

Chrissie let out a tiny squeak beside me. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

And then, with poise borrowed from generations of scandal-surviving women before us, we began our descent.

Waiting at the bottom, precisely centered beneath the great arch of the ballroom entrance, stood Her Grace, the Duchess of Comingford.

Resplendent in midnight blue silk and diamond drops that glinted like frost, she stood as still as a statue—though her eyes were anything but frozen. They scanned each of us as we approached, taking in Grandmother’s steel spine, Chrissie’s fragile composure, and whatever expression I’d managed to fix in place.

As we reached the final step, she moved forward.

“Countess,” the Duchess said with a nod. “Lady Rosalynd. Lady Chrysanthemum.”

“Your Grace,” Grandmother replied, offering her hand with the faintest dip of her chin. “A splendid turnout. Nothing draws a crowd like murder, I always say.”

The Duchess’s lips twitched. “Quite. Though I admit, I’m pleased to see you here.” She nodded toward me. “Lady Rosalynd.”

I met her gaze squarely as I curtsied. “You doubted we would come?”

“I hoped you would,” she said. “There’s nothing quite so effective at killing rumor as being seen, is there?”

“No,” I said, my voice even. “But sometimes being seen only makes the whispers louder.”

Her smile deepened, though whether it was amusement or admiration, I couldn’t say. “Then I trust you’ll give them something worth whispering about.” She paused, eyes glinting just a touch. “And do let me know when the Society for the Advancement of Women next convenes. I find myself increasingly tempted to attend.”

Beside me, Grandmother made a faint sound—possibly a scoff, possibly a chuckle.

“I’ll see that your name is added to the list,” I said, unable to keep the corner of my mouth from lifting.

The Duchess inclined her head. “Please do.” Stepping aside with practiced grace, she motioned us into a shimmering sea of lace and silk and the weight of a hundred curious stares.

We’d barely taken a few steps when a tidal wave of suitors in crisply tailored jackets descended upon Chrissie—all of them clamoring to be the first on her card. Their smiles were eager as their voices overlapped in a flurry of polite desperation.

“Lady Chrysanthemum, might I claim the first waltz?”

“Surely you’ve saved the quadrille for me, milady?—”

“I’ve a cousin who will be green with envy if I secure a set tonight?—”

Chrissie laughed, a sound so light and bright it made me smile. With poise far beyond her years, she began jotting names onto her card, smiling graciously at each new request, her dance card filling faster than champagne glasses.

I watched from just beyond the swirling edge of satin and silk. Her cheeks were flushed with delight, her eyes shining. For the first time in weeks, she could truly enjoy herself without the weight of scandal.

Grandmother leaned in, her voice dry as ever. “If any of them propose before supper, I do hope you’ve remembered to pack the Rosehaven emeralds.”

I gave her a sidelong glance. “Chrissie is not so silly as to accept a marriage proposal without consulting me first.”

One arched brow signaled Grandmother’s skepticism.

“And naturally,” I added, “we’d speak to Cosmos. As the head of the family, he would never allow one of his sisters to marry anyone less than worthy.”

Grandmother gave a faint, noncommittal hum.

“He’d look into everything,” I went on. “The family and the bank accounts, of course. But more than that, the gentleman’s character and integrity. And most of all, whether he could be trusted to care for her the way she deserves.”

Grandmother gave the barest nod, just enough to acknowledge the truth of it. “Well,” she murmured, “he is your father’s son.”

We both looked again toward Chrissie, radiant at the edge of the dance floor, fielding admirers with gentle charm and unshakable poise. For once, she didn’t seem the least bit fragile.

From the corner of her eye, Grandmother caught sight of a familiar cluster of bejeweled matrons arranged like artillery along a row of gilt-backed chairs.

“Ah,” she murmured, “the Dowager Battalion is fully deployed this evening. Lady Pellham at the helm, naturally. I suppose I ought to report in before one of them declares me absent without leave.”

I suppressed a smile. “Do try to behave.”

Grandmother sniffed. “Among that lot? I shall consider it an act of diplomacy if I don’t skewer someone with my cane.”

Then, with all the dignity of a retiring general and none of the subtlety, she leaned into her ivory-handled cane and swept off into the ballroom—majestic, unsinkable, and entirely in command of her troops.

With Chrissie twirling deeper into a sea of satin and suitors, and Grandmother gone to join the Dowager Battalion, I found myself momentarily adrift.

I moved forward into the ballroom at a measured pace, not seeking anyone in particular, only weaving through the swell of music and murmurs, nodding here and there in acknowledgment of familiar faces. An aging viscountess lifted her lorgnette and offered a stiff smile. A junior baron gave a slight bow, clearly more curious than courteous. I met each glance with composed detachment, my expression polite.

It wasn’t that I was trying to avoid being seen. I knew better than to disappear in a room like this. But I wasn’t quite ready to be found, either. I had nearly reached the far side of the ballroom when a gloved hand caught my elbow.

“Well,” came a familiar voice—dry as champagne and twice as effervescent—“that was quite an entrance. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

I turned to find Claire at my side, a twinkle in her eye and an expression that suggested she’d just witnessed the scandalous first act of a particularly delicious play.

“I didn’t intend to make an entrance.”

“But you did nonetheless.” She gestured toward the onlookers with her fan. “You have a way of captivating them, Rosalynd. And the most maddening part? You don’t even realize it.”

Eager to turn the conversation in another direction, I suggested, “Can we please change the subject?”

“Of course.” Her gaze swept the ballroom like a hawk scanning the ground for movement. “Lady Litchfield is wearing last season’s Worth gown. I’d stake my reputation on it. And Lord Beaufort has just asked Miss Dering to dance again, which means either he’s in love or hoping to marry her and her fabulous dowry.”

She took a sip of champagne, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Lady Farnsworth arrived late—very flushed—with her ‘cousin’ in tow. Not the same one as last week, mind you.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “How do you know all this?”

Claire gave a mock sigh. “Because I don’t spend my time pretending I don’t care what people say. I listen . Radical, I know.” Her gaze flicked casually toward the dance floor. “Oh, and your duke is here. Has been for at least twenty minutes.”

My breath hitched. “If you mean Steele, he’s not my duke.”

“Mmm.” She swirled the liquid in her glass. “He hasn’t danced once, which makes him either incredibly intimidating or exceedingly choosy. Possibly both.”

I didn’t look. Not yet. The mere mention of him had stirred something tight and fluttering beneath my ribs, and I refused to let Claire see it.

Naturally, she saw it anyway. “Oh, darling,” she said, smirking, “do stop pretending you haven’t been scanning every corner of this ballroom since you descended those stairs. You could’ve lit a fire with the tension between you two at Lady Walsh’s ball. And that was before you began skulking about together, investigating Walsh’s murder.”

She leaned in, voice deliciously conspiratorial. “I can only imagine what you got up to. Visiting each other’s homes. Dropping into that little house in Chelsea—the very one his father used for liaisons with his mistress.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t know?” Her brows rose in mock innocence. “The old duke bought it for his paramour. Quite the scandal, back in the day. Your Steele never used it. Until you. For your tryst.”

“It was not a tryst ,” I snapped just a shade too loudly, which, of course, made a few heads turn.

I gave her a withering look. “Are you quite finished?”

“Almost.” She leaned in again, her tone turning light, almost offhand. “Tell me. Where is Cosmos this evening?”

“Claire,” I said warningly, “you promised.”

“I did, didn’t I?” she mused. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve taken up a new interest.”

“Other than gossip, you mean?”

“Yes. Plants. Oh, and flowers too. I’ve joined the Royal Society for Botanical Inquiry.”

I turned my head slowly toward her. “That’s the association Cosmos belongs to.”

“Is it really?” she asked, eyes alight with unholy amusement.

Before I could form a suitably scathing response to Claire’s botanical ambitions, a familiar voice—low, velvet-edged, unmistakably his—cut through the din of the ballroom like a blade sliding through silk.

“Lady Rosalynd.”

It was absurd, really, how quickly the world seemed to hush. Not in volume, perhaps, but in clarity. As though every note of the orchestra, every rustle of silk, every murmured aside faded into nothing beneath the weight of his voice.

Unable to prevent myself, I turned toward him.

He stood, tall and composed in formal black, a white waistcoat lending sharp contrast to his dark presence. The Duke of Steele. The man who had haunted my dreams, disturbed my composure, and—at this very moment—looked at me as though nothing and no one else in the room existed.

He bowed, perfectly correct as the occasion called for it. “Would you do me the honor of this next dance?”

Claire didn’t bother to hide her grin.

As he extended his hand, I hesitated for only a breath. And then I placed mine in his without a word, acutely aware of the warmth of his palm against my glove and the subtle strength behind his restraint. We moved together onto the floor just as the orchestra swelled into the first notes of a waltz.

He guided me into motion with practiced ease—no hesitation, no misstep, as though we’d been dancing together our entire lives. The scent of vetiver, cut with a whisper of bergamot, clung faintly to him, threaded with something darker—leather, perhaps—and the coolness of night air.

“You’re quiet,” he said, after a moment.

“I’m thinking,” I replied, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. “It’s what I do when I’m not being accused of trysts or plotting scandals .”

He let out a quiet breath of something that might have been amusement. Then, after a beat, he said, “You’re looking lovely tonight.”

My gaze engaged with his. “Is that flattery or reconnaissance?”

“Observation.”

He turned us in a slow, deliberate sweep across the polished floor, and for a moment the world blurred—crystal chandeliers spinning, silk skirts brushing past, candlelight catching on sequins and diamonds. But all I could feel was the press of his hand at my back and the weight of that single word hanging in the space between us.

“Thank you,” I said at last, more breath than voice.

He nodded once, his expression unreadable. “It’s not a compliment, Rosalynd. It’s a fact.”

For a time, we moved in silence. The music swelled around us, a graceful veil between the present and all that had come before. I was aware only of the warmth of his hand at my back, the rhythm of his breath, and the way he seemed to steady the world by simply being near.

Then his voice, low and even, cut through the hush. “How is your cousin?”

“She’s well,” I said, lifting my gaze to meet his. “She’s still at Rosehaven House—for now. The doctor insists she stay close to comfort, not chaos. Only trusted friends are allowed to visit her. She’s content to wait out the birth in peace.”

A beat passed. Then, more softly, he asked, “And after the child is born?”

“If it’s a boy, she’ll claim all that’s due her son—title, estate, the protections that come with both. If it’s a girl . . .” I hesitated. “She’ll retire to the dower house. Quietly. The funds we uncovered through the investigation will be enough for her to live well.”

He studied my face, searching for something. “Will she remarry, you think?”

“She might. In time. But it’s far from her mind at the moment.”

He was silent again for several beats, guiding me through a long turn. The music spun around us, but everything inside me had gone still. There was no danger now—no hunt, no shadow pressing in.

“She’s stronger than most gave her credit for,” I said quietly.

“So are you.”

There was something in his voice—low, almost reverent—that I wasn’t ready to face. Not here. Not now.

I turned away under the pretense of surveying the ballroom, letting my gaze drift across the sea of glittering gowns and tailored coats. In the distance, I spotted Lord Nicholas in conversation with his mother, the Duchess of Steele. Both were watching us with thinly veiled interest.

I inclined my head in their direction. “Lord Nicholas appears to have recovered his spirits.”

“He has,” Steele replied. “A bit of solitude at the Richmond estate did him good.”

“And perhaps a word or two from his elder brother?”

“I may have suggested he was making a cake of himself.”

My lips curved despite myself, though I kept any reply to myself. Amusement warred with the strange ache low in my chest—a feeling I had no desire to name.

The music softened, signaling the end of the set. Steele’s hand lingered at my back for the briefest moment before he stepped away just enough to meet my gaze.

“There’s a conservatory just off the ballroom,” he said quietly. “Glass walls, warm air, and a few thriving orchids. It’s quiet enough to talk—without giving the gossips anything new to whisper about.”

It was a thoughtful offer, beautifully calculated. I ached to say yes. To follow him into that warm, green quiet and let the rest of the world melt away.

But as I glanced across the ballroom, I caught sight of Chrissie—laughing up at her dance partner, cheeks flushed, eyes alight with something close to joy. She looked radiant, untouched by scandal for the first time in weeks.

I couldn’t risk drawing attention now.

“I appreciate the offer,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But I can’t. This is Chrissie’s night. I won’t risk turning it into mine.”

Steele studied me for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a nod of quiet understanding, he stepped back.

“Another time, then.”

“Perhaps,” I said, knowing how badly I wished it could be now.

He disappeared once more into the press of silk and music, leaving behind the echo of his touch and a truth I could no longer deny.

I remained where I was, still and composed amid the swirl of music and motion, but inside, everything trembled.

How I wanted to follow him. Not for secrecy or scandal or some foolish romantic thrill, but for something far quieter—and far more dangerous.

I wanted to sit beside him in the soft warmth of that conservatory. To speak plainly. To rest, if only for a moment, in the company of someone who had seen me at my sharpest, my most determined, and still called me lovely .

It wasn’t just desire. It was peace I longed for. The kind of peace I had spent my entire adult life denying myself in service to duty, reputation, and the ever-watchful eyes of society. I had not allowed myself to dream of tenderness, of partnership—not really. And yet, with him, I’d begun to.

But I couldn’t afford the indulgence. Not while Chrissie’s name still hung in the balance, not while Petunia still needed my steadiness, not while the Rosehaven legacy rested so heavily on my shoulders.

So I stood still, spine straight, chin lifted, and let the moment pass me by like so many others.

Perhaps, one day, I would be free to reach for what my heart most desired.

But tonight, I was Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven—sister, protector, and scandal’s most unwilling shadow. The conservatory would remain empty.

I turned away from the dance floor, weaving through the crowd until I found Claire exactly where I’d left her—standing, still smug, and sipping her champagne with all the elegance of a cat watching a bird try to escape a cage.

She didn’t even wait for me to say anything. “He asked you for a moment of privacy, didn’t he?”

I slid next to her. “Are you a lip reader now?”

“I didn’t have to be,” she said, setting her glass down on a passing waiter’s tray with a delicate clink. “I read his face. And yours. You turned him down.”

I looked away. “I have obligations, Claire.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just picked up another champagne flute, tilted it toward the chandelier, and let the bubbles catch the light. Then, softly but without apology: “You’re a fool.”

I didn’t disagree. Not because she was cruel. But because she was right.

Across the ballroom, Chrissie danced in a swirl of pale silk, her face alight—radiant with promise. I watched her twirl and laugh and shine, and I reminded myself—again—why I had chosen duty over desire.

But just before I looked away, I saw him.

Steele stood at the edge of the crowd, half in shadow, his eyes fixed on mine. He didn’t smile. He didn’t beckon. He simply watched with the quiet sorrow of a man who had been denied what I could not bear to give.

And then, as the orchestra swelled into another waltz, he disappeared into the glittering throng.