Page 29 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

I lower myself with the rest, gloved hands brushing against my skirts. When I rise, he is already watching me. Our eyes meet and I refrain from flinching. Dorian stands beside me, still as iron, the perfect portrait of ducal restraint.

“Your Highness,” I say and curtsy.

He pauses before us, eyes narrowed like a blade half-drawn.

“Princess Katherine,” he replies. “And Your Grace. What a rare pleasure to behold England’s most swiftly betrothed.” His smile deepens. “I trust the arrangements are proving… mutually beneficial?”

“More than,” Dorian answers for me. His voice is velvet over steel. “Ashwood is honoured by the Crown’s continued interest in our affairs.”

“Interest,” the Prince muses. “An apt word. Particularly where matters of commerce and diamonds are concerned.”

“Most certainly.”

His attention roams to the crimson stone at my throat, glimmering like fresh blood. I do not look away.

“A most exquisite gem,” he says, as though addressing the room. A performance no less. “And so rare to see one displayed with such… conviction.”

“Her Grace is never short of conviction,” Dorian says, but quietly enough for only the three of us to hear.

The Prince moves one hand behind him.“Indeed. I recall… the circumstances of your union were quite—how shall I say—unconventional. But necessity has ever been the mother of propriety, has it not?”

“Sometimes scandal is simply the truth arriving ahead of schedule,” I say without thinking. I curse myself for the faux pas.

His brows lift and amusement breaks through his polished veneer.

“A philosopher’s wit,” Prince George says. “You’ll be well-suited to court, Your Grace.” He turns to Dorian. “Ashwood, I shall call upon your vaults, I trust you’ve already prepared. The Crown prefers to see its investments… firsthand.”

“Of course, Your Highness. My steward awaits you in the library.”

“Splendid.” The Prince bows. “Then I shan’t detain you further. Enjoy your ball… and your bride.”

With that, the Prince turns and drifts into the crowd.

As we walk, I glance over my shoulder.

Lady Candace Haversham is gone.

Strange. She has vanished.

The place where she stood is empty.

Still, there is tension in my shoulders.

“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” Dorian enquires.

I shake my head. “It is nothing. Let us dance.”

The orchestra plays an old waltz of tender courtship.

Our fingers meet at the centre of the ballroom.

His hand is warm and steady, gloved but firm with intent.

Dorian stands across from me like a statue brought to life: perfectly tailored, perfectly poised, perfectly cold.

Everyone is watching. Every breath, every blink.

“The mad duke doesn’t seem so mad,” someone whispers in the crowd.

“I am practically withering away from boredom.”

The rest — wives of earls, barons, and Viscounts whisper behind their fans. Their husbands watch with careful interest, trying to decipher if I’m a threat or a puppet.

I am neither. And both.

Dorian takes my hand, with the other around my waist and we begin to move.

The first pass is quiet. Velvet against wool.

His palm at my waist is careful, not because he’s afraid of touching me, but because he’s afraid of what might happen if he touches me too much.

Still, even inside a sea of faces, I burn.

“I didn’t think you’d dance,” I murmur.

He smiles back. “I don’t. Only if I must.”

“You wouldn’t otherwise?” I question with a tilt of my chin.

He evades my question.

“The prince is watching.”

So is Gabriel.

So is everyone.

They want to see if we will break.

The gown ripples in perfect time. Red silk whispers over polished stone, beaded with obsidian and pearls, is enough to reflect every candelabra in this cursed place.

“You shouldn’t have worn that dress,” he mutters. “It makes the women turn green with envy. Their men want to ravage you.”

“That was the point. You wanted a performance.” I smile. “And ravage me? You already did that, Your Grace.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Your mouth will stir trouble if you speak any louder.”

“One can only hope.”

His grin widens.

We sweep into the centre and the crowd parts. The music quickens. I glide back, letting the full train of my gown fan behind me. It is a sight. The room gasps in unison.

They see what I want them to.

That I belong here.

That’s the illusion.

Dorian draws me close again. His lips are an inch from my temple and I remember this is all temporary, and soon he will order me to exile.

Exile.

All of a sudden, I cannot breathe.

We spin. It is a perfect turn .

A perfect lie.

And then it’s over.

The crowd applauds. The spell breaks.

He lets me go.

The truth spews onto me again.

Exile.

The moment the final waltz ends, we slip away to the open balcony for air. My lungs ache beneath the corset, my skin flushed from too much warmth, too many eyes.

Exile.

Below, the courtyard stirs with commotion. A velvet chest, narrow and ornate, is carried by two of Ashwood’s guards toward the Prince’s carriage — a great golden thing with royal crests painted on the sides and thick glass panes etched with the Crown’s insignia.

Dorian joins me at the balustrade, eyes tracking every motion. “The vault remained sealed until an hour ago,” he says under his breath. “He’ll find no cause for complaint.”

“You’re giving them over — tonight?” I ask.

“He insisted. And I will not give him an excuse to linger about the Castle grounds any longer than necessary.”

From a distance, I see them below. The chest is accepted by the Prince’s royal steward and locked beneath the seat. Horses stamp and footmen climb aboard.

“All that security,” I murmur. “And yet none of it protects us from the true threat.”

Dorian doesn’t answer.

The forest still spreads poison.

The carriage begins its slow roll down the gravel path. Lamps guide their past through the mist. I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. So does everyone else.

The Prince is gone.

Thank God.

And in the moment before the next dance begins, the weight of a gaze falls upon me.

Lady Candace.

She’s standing by the stairwell again, hidden behind a curtain’s shadow, smiling.

Only this time, she doesn’t blink.

She turns and runs .

The air changes before I hear the whispers. It stills, like the breath of the manor has caught in its throat.

Music fades behind me—the ballroom’s warmth and light replaced by something colder, heavier. I follow the shift instinctively, drawn toward the corridor where candlelight flickers more frantically, where shadows twist like warning fingers.

I round the corner—and halt.

A crowd has formed. Hushed murmurs filled with dread. Their silks and satins do nothing to soften the jagged hush that hangs between them.

“What in God’s teeth?” Dorian queries from beside me.

Gabriel is at the centre, crouched low over a shape I can’t yet see, his sleeves bloodied, face carved in stone.

“Seal off the east wing,” he say. “Now.”

Guards move without question. Nora appears beside me, ghost-pale. “Your Grace,” she breathes, but I’m already moving forward.

The wall of bodies parts for me.

And then I see her.

Candace.

Or what’s left of her.

Her gown has been shredded, tossed aside like an afterthought.

Her body lies naked across the marble flooring, splayed open in the most grotesque display I have ever seen.

Her breasts are gone, cut clean off, as if removed with surgical cruelty.

Her chest is split from clavicle to navel, exposing bloodless ribs and hollow cavities.

Her eyes—

Dear God.

Her eyes are missing.

The sockets gape at me, dark and wet and impossibly empty.

Gabriel doesn’t look up. “This body’s been dead for hours at least,” he murmurs to the nearest Bow Street Runner. “Rigour’s already set in. Blood’s drying around the edges.”

But—

I just saw her not less than an hour ago.

Nora saw her too.

The perfume of blood is everywhere—copper and meat, sharp and unmistakable. My stomach clenches as I take a step back, and the world sways.

How is this possible?

Unless…

No. No, it couldn’t be.

Was it a ghost that I saw?

Gabriel rises. His eyes meet mine.

“Seal the castle. Our killer is at the ball.”