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“ I … that is…” she began, uncertain.

Annabelle turned. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she met his gaze. The other women had apparently followed him across the room, their expressions now ranging from curious to openly envious.

“Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind?” He extended his hand toward her and his eyes never left her face. “Though I confess I would be deeply disappointed. I’ve been looking forward to it all evening.”

The murmur of conversation around them seemed to hush as other guests began to take notice of the exchange. Annabelle was acutely aware of Lady Howard’s sharp intake of breath and of the way several other women’s fans snapped closed in obvious displeasure.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she managed, placing her gloved hand in his. “I would be honored.”

The moment their hands touched, even through the barrier of their gloves, Annabelle felt a jolt of electricity that seemed to race up her arm and settle somewhere deep in her chest.

Henry’s fingers closed around hers with gentle pressure, and she could have sworn she felt his thumb brush across her knuckles in a caress so subtle she might have imagined it.

As he led her toward the dance floor, she was dimly aware of the whispers that followed in their wake and the way heads turned to track their progress across the room.

But all of that faded to insignificance as the opening strains of a waltz began to play, and Henry’s hand settled at her waist while his other maintained its hold on her fingers.

“You look absolutely breathtaking tonight,” he murmured. His voice was pitched low enough that only she could hear. “The gown is even more beautiful on you than I imagined.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze directly. “Your Grace, I?—”

“Henry,” he corrected automatically.

Annabelle’s pulse was a drumbeat in her throat, but she held his gaze. “I never thought I’d hear a man who is rather adamant about following social etiquette ask a lady to break it so easily.” Henry’s brow arched. “You know I cannot call you by your given name here, at such a public place?—”

“Oh, but I believe it is just you I have in my arms right this instant,” he said, his usual rigid tone dripping dark honey. “That is rather private enough to me.”

They began to move together across the floor, and Annabelle discovered that Henry was an exceptional dancer—strong and confident, as he guided her through the steps with an ease that made her feel as though she were floating.

But it was more than mere technical skill; there was something in the way he held her, the careful attention he paid to her responses, that made the dance feel like an intimate conversation conducted without words.

“Henry,” she whispered, and felt his hand tighten slightly at her waist in response.

“Much better,” he said. His breath was warm against her ear as they turned together. “I’ve thought about nothing but you this past week.”

The admission sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the temperature in the ballroom. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Why not, when they’re true?” His eyes met hers again, and she saw heat there that made her breath catch. “I told you I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Did you think that would change simply because we were in public?”

They moved through another series of turns, their bodies perfectly synchronized, and Annabelle found herself acutely aware of every point of contact between them. His hand lingered at her waist, his fingers entwined with hers, and the way her skirts brushed against his legs as they danced…

“Everyone is watching us,” she managed, though she found she cared less about the observation than she should have.

“Let them,” Henry replied, his voice rough with some emotion she couldn’t quite identify. “All I care about is you enjoying yourself tonight.”

Annabelle’s eyes flew wide at the words coming out of the Duke’s mouth. She’d never been one at a loss for words, but now that she was faced with the full brunt of this man’s attention, she found herself wanting to run away.

And that annoyed her as much as it terrified her.

The music seemed to swell around them, and for a moment, Annabelle allowed herself to fall into the rhythm of the dance, into the warmth of Henry’s regard, and into the fantasy that perhaps, for just this one evening, she could be the woman in his arms without consequence.

But as the final notes of the waltz began to fade, reality crashed back over her like a cold wave.

The whispers around the ballroom had grown more pronounced, and she could see the calculation in various observers’ eyes as they watched the Duke of Marchwood escort the spinster Miss Annabelle Lytton from the dance floor.

Henry seemed reluctant to release her hand. His fingers lingered on hers for just a moment longer than propriety dictated.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Lytton,” he said formally, though his eyes conveyed a very different message as they slowly raked down her body and hurried back up to search her eyes.

“The pleasure was mine, Your Grace,” she replied, forcing herself to step back and create the appropriate distance between them.

But before she could retreat entirely, Henry was approached by several gentlemen. Their expressions were serious as they drew him aside for what was clearly a business discussion.

Annabelle caught fragments of their conversation—something about investments and parliamentary votes—and recognized several faces from her father’s social circle.

“I say, Your Grace,” Lord Hartwell was saying as she lingered nearby, pretending to adjust her gloves, “interesting choice of dance partner this evening. Miss Lytton, wasn’t it? Rather surprised to see you paying such marked attention to a woman of her reputation.”

“What reputation might that be, Hartwell?” Henry’s voice carried a dangerous edge that made Annabelle’s pulse quicken.

“Well, you know how it is,” another gentleman interjected with a nervous laugh.

“The scandal with that Belford fellow a few years back. Jilted at the altar, if memory serves. And she’s well past her prime now, isn’t she?

Hardly the sort of woman one would expect to catch the eye of someone in your position. ”

Annabelle felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. She retreated toward where her grandmother waited, desperate as she was to escape before she heard Henry’s response.

But as she turned away, she found her path blocked by a familiar figure.

Lady Catherine stood before her, resplendent in pale pink silk that emphasized her youthful beauty, holding a glass of red wine with what appeared to be casual elegance.

“Miss Lytton,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “What a delightful surprise to see you here this evening. I was just telling my dear friends how unexpected it was to see His Grace pay you such marked attention.”

“Were you indeed?” Annabelle replied carefully, sensing danger in the other woman’s tone.

“Oh yes. We were just discussing how some women simply don’t know when it’s time to gracefully retire from such pursuits.” Lady Catherine’s smile sharpened. “After all, there comes a point when one’s attempts to recapture youth become rather… pathetic, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Annabelle said evenly. “I’ve never found it necessary to concern myself with recapturing anything.”

“How fortunate for you.” Lady Catherine stepped closer, ostensibly to speak more intimately, but Annabelle saw the deliberate tilt of her wine glass a split second too late.

The red wine splashed across the front of the emerald gown in a dark, spreading stain that seemed to bloom like blood against the silk.

Gasps arose from the nearby guests, and Annabelle’s face flamed with mortification as all eyes turned toward the spectacle.

“Oh dear!” Lady Catherine exclaimed with obviously false dismay. “How terribly clumsy of me! I do hope the gown isn’t completely ruined. Though I suppose at your age, you won’t need it after tonight.”

Annabelle could feel the weight of every gaze in the ballroom and hear the whispers beginning to spread like wildfire through the assembled guests.

The beautiful gown—Henry’s gift —was destroyed, stained beyond any hope of repair.

Without a word, she turned and fled toward the doors leading to the side corridors. Her vision blurred with tears of shame and rage even as she made sure not one drop spilled out of her eyes.

Behind her, she could hear her grandmother’s sharp voice cutting through the murmur of conversation, no doubt delivering a set-down that would be remembered for weeks to come.

But Annabelle didn’t stop to listen. She needed to escape, to find somewhere private where she could attempt to compose herself before facing the inevitable gossip and speculation that would follow this disaster.

She found refuge in a small anteroom off one of the side corridors. The room was dimly lit by a single branch of candles, furnished with a few chairs and a small mirror that reflected her disheveled appearance back at her with cruel clarity.

Annabelle sank into one of the chairs and fought back tears as she stared down at the ruined gown. The wine had soaked deep into the silk, leaving an ugly stain that covered nearly the entire front of the dress.

All of Henry’s thoughtfulness, all the care he had taken in selecting this beautiful gift, had been destroyed by one woman’s petty jealousy.

She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, dabbing futilely at the stain while tears of frustration and humiliation began to fall in earnest.

“Annabelle?”

Annabelle froze.

Because she knew exactly who owned that voice.

“Annabelle.”

Henry paused in front of the door. His voice cut through the shadows of the anteroom like a blade, low and dangerous in a way that made Annabelle’s spine straighten at the sound of it.

When she turned around to look at him, he found her beautiful eyes wet with unshed tears and her cheeks shot with red.

He also noticed the dark red stain that splashed across the front of her gown, soaking it through—so much so that he could almost make out the outlines of her underclothes if he squinted hard enough.

Henry’s teeth clenched, both from the effort of restraining his desire and anger.

“Who did this to you?” His expression was tight with barely controlled fury.

Annabelle narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t think it should concern you, Your Grace,” she said sharply, turning away from him to face the mirror once more. “Haven’t you done quite enough for one evening?”

“I asked you a question.” He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Who. Did. This?”

“And why should I tell you?” She challenged him, and her face flushed red, though he didn’t quite know whether it was from embarrassment or rage.

Rage at him, to be precise, even though he didn’t know what he did to deserve it.

“Are you going to fight a woman on my behalf? My, that is hardly proper, is it?”

Henry’s brows drew lower over his eyes. “What is the matter?—”

Her eyes flashed, as if his question had only served to infuriate her even more. “I am simply trying to remind you, Your Grace, that you should not be here with me like this. Not after that storm of gossip we stirred up back in the ballroom.”

Henry’s jaw clenched visibly. “I was of the opinion that you did not care for etiquette.”

She opened her mouth, but no sharp retort came. Instead, her breath hitched. It was a small, wounded sound that struck him far harder than her fury ever had.

And before he could even begin to understand why, something inside him twisted painfully.