Page 1

CHAPTER 1

“ H ester, do lower your chin, you are beginning to resemble a curious giraffe,” Lady Fiona Pierce said, her voice dipped in amusement as she leaned slightly toward her friend.

Lady Hester Jensen, daughter to the Earl of Hightower, ignored the playful reprimand and continued to peer rather blatantly about the crowded ballroom, her fan held aloft but serving little purpose save as a prop to cover her roving eyes.

“I have it on good authority that the Duke of Craton is in attendance,” she whispered, the words spilling from her lips with breathless eagerness.

Fiona blinked. “The Duke of Craton?” she repeated, uncertain she had heard correctly. The name pulled at something faintly familiar, though no clear image presented itself in her mind.

“He is here?” asked Lady Nancy Gallagher, the third of their little trio and daughter of the Duke of Neads. Her posture straightened at once as she too joined the search, her expression less desperate than Hester’s, but no less intrigued.

Fiona turned toward the ballroom’s entrance, scanning the gilded archways and the press of elegantly clad lords and ladies. Chandeliers blazed overhead, spilling golden light across the marbled floor, but no looming figure resembling a duke—beastly or otherwise—presented itself.

“I do not see him,” Nancy murmured, standing on the tips of her slippers for a moment before settling back.

“My heavens, Fiona, have you never heard of the Beast of Mayfair?” Hester asked, her tone lowered dramatically, as though she feared being overheard.

Fiona’s brows lifted. “Beast of Mayfair?” she echoed, faintly incredulous.

“He is so called,” Hester continued, nodding solemnly. “It is the name society has bestowed upon him, and I daresay he has done little to dispel it.”

“Do not expect Fiona to know anything of Craton,” Nancy said with a soft laugh. “He’s shown himself so rarely in society that half the ton believes him to be a myth.”

Fiona tilted her head, more intrigued than she wished to appear. “Why does he bear such a moniker?”

“Do you know the great, brooding mansion on Mayfair’s far end—the one shrouded in ivy and more shadow than light?” Hester asked, leaning closer.

Fiona’s eyes widened slightly. “You cannot mean that house? I always thought it quite abandoned. I have never seen so much as a flicker of candlelight through those windows.”

“Indeed, that is his residence,” Hester confirmed, eyes bright. “They say he abhors social gatherings, that he prowls the edges of society like a ghost, scowling at anyone who dares approach. Some claim he does not even speak unless he must, and then only to insult.”

“Hence his reputation as the Beast of Mayfair,” Fiona mused aloud, her lips curving despite herself.

Nancy, ever the voice of reason, gave a delicate shrug. “Let us not build castles from whispers. These are tales, Hester. Gossip dressed in velvet and lace. None of us truly knows the man.”

“You make it sound as though we are sitting in judgment,” Hester huffed, snapping open her fan with a brisk flick.

“You are,” Nancy replied coolly, “Fiona is merely listening to your tales with admirable patience.”

Fiona allowed a small, bemused smile to form, though she kept her expression serene. Her heart beat just a touch faster, a curious rhythm tapping at the edge of her calm. The Beast of Mayfair… How very dramatic. And yet, why does the thought stir such interest?

“You are positively no fun when it comes to gossip, Nancy,” Hester grumbled, folding her arms with the petulance of a child denied her favorite sweet.

Fiona let out a soft chuckle despite herself, and beside her, Nancy allowed a small, amused shake of her head.

“I shall take that as a compliment,” Nancy replied smoothly.

Their laughter mingled lightly with the music, but the sound was swiftly swallowed by a sudden shift in the air—an almost tangible murmur that rippled across the ballroom like wind sweeping through a field of reeds. Conversations faltered. Fans stilled. Heads turned in one collective motion.

“What on earth—?” Fiona began, only to trail off as her gaze followed the source of the disturbance.

The crowd near the entrance was parting, guests stepping aside with practiced grace, but their eyes were wide, their expressions a mix of curiosity and hesitation. Through the opening, a figure emerged.

Fiona’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat.

He moved with the assurance of someone entirely unaffected by the attention he garnered. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in black that suited his frame far too well, the Duke of Craton possessed an air of cold command that seemed to darken the very light around him. His presence was not loud—it was silent and thunderous all at once.

His dark hair curled just slightly at the nape of his neck, and though his face bore no expression, there was something in the line of his jaw, in the sharpness of his brow, that held the attention like a blade pressed to the skin.

And then he looked up.

His gaze locked with hers across the gilded room, and Fiona felt the connection like a jolt beneath her skin. Those eyes—dark, unreadable—pierced through the layers she had so carefully draped over her composure.

Good heavens!

A small gasp escaped her lips before she could contain it, and she quickly turned her face away, as though that singular glance had laid her bare. Her gaze landed instead on the woman accompanying him.

Petite, elegant, and unmistakably self-assured, the lady held his arm with a familiarity that suggested a bond far deeper than mere acquaintance. Her bearing was proud, not boastful, and though she barely reached his shoulder, she walked as though the ballroom belonged to her.

“That is him,” Hester whispered reverently, clutching at Fiona’s arm.

“That is the Duke of Craton,” she breathed, eyes round with awe.

Fiona said nothing. She could not have spoken if she tried. Her heart was behaving quite unlike itself.

“Quite the elusive beast indeed,” Nancy murmured, her voice a shade breathless.

“I thought you said it was all rumor,” Hester turned sharply, eyes narrowing as she tossed the accusation toward Nancy.

Nancy had the grace to look abashed, her lips curving into a sheepish smile. “Well… one does try to remain sensible. But I am not made of stone.”

Before anyone could reply, another voice broke through, warm and bright in tone, yet unmistakably heavy in intent.

“Oh, there you are, dear. I have been searching every corner of the room for you.”

Fiona stiffened.

Her mother, the Marchioness of Holden, stood before them with her usual air of composed urgency. The gloved fingers of one hand rested delicately at her waist, but her eyes held that familiar, pointed gleam.

“Lady Hester, Lady Nancy,” she greeted with a tight smile that never quite reached her eyes. “What a charming surprise to see you both here.”

“Your Ladyship,” Hester and Nancy curtsied in unison.

“I hope you are enjoying the evening,” her mother continued, already turning her attention back to Fiona with unmistakable purpose.

“We are, indeed,” Nancy offered with polite ease.

“Delightful. Fiona, dear, do come. There is someone you must speak with.”

Fiona hesitated, just long enough to feel the pang of something wilting in her chest. She had been so looking forward to a quiet evening of laughter and whispered nonsense with her friends.

Of course Mother has other plans. She always does.

“You are not in want of distractions this evening,” Prudence Pierce murmured, leaning closer as they wove their way through the crowd. Her tone was soft enough to pass for maternal concern, but Fiona knew better.

Fiona’s brows lifted slightly, though she kept her expression as composed as ever. “My friends are not distractions, Mama,” she replied, her voice quiet but resolute.

Her mother made a dismissive sound, the kind one might make when brushing lint from one’s sleeve. “Where is your dance card?” she asked instead, ignoring the protest entirely.

They paused near the orchestra, just out of the sweep of the dancers, where the scent of beeswax and rosewater mingled thickly in the air. Prudence’s gaze swept her daughter with swift calculation.

“And good heavens, child, you look nearly as pale as the wallpaper,” she said under her breath, her eyes narrowing. “Pinch some color into your cheeks. Honestly, Fiona, you look ghastly.”

Fiona’s cheeks warmed, though not from embarrassment. She brought a gloved hand to her face, her fingers fluttering near her cheekbone but not quite obeying the command.

Is there ever a moment when I am not under inspection?

“You do not want Lord Canterlack seeing you like this,” Prudence continued, her voice sharp with censure. “He shall think you unwell, or worse—melancholy. And that is the last impression we want to give.”

That word— we —landed with the familiar weight of expectation. Fiona said nothing. What was there to say?

Aaron Finch, the Earl of Canterlack, was her betrothed. The match had been settled long before she had the opportunity to form an opinion on the matter. It had come with the certainty of thunder after lightning—impressive, deafening, and entirely inevitable.

He was not an unfit match, nor an unkind man. But Fiona could not help the lingering ache of what might have been— a choice . A small, unremarkable luxury that had been denied her.

“He is somewhere about, I am sure,” her mother said, turning her head to scan the ballroom with all the intensity of a general seeking out a misplaced regiment. “No doubt he shall appear shortly to request your hand for a dance.”

Fiona nodded vaguely, though the thought made her stomach flutter with a heaviness she could not name. Why do I feel as though I am about to sit for an examination rather than enjoy a waltz?

She glanced toward the dance floor, her gaze drifting between the whirling couples until it settled—rather abruptly—on a familiar figure.

There he was.

Lord Canterlack, polished and poised, was already engaged in a dance. The lady in his arms was unfamiliar, but she appeared to be enjoying herself well enough. He smiled at something she said, a polite, practiced smile that did little to touch his eyes.

Fiona blinked. She had missed his first dance of the evening. A part of her bristled at the oversight, but the larger part could not summon the energy to be offended. They had arrived later than usual, after all, and he must have grown bored with waiting.

Her mother, still peering into the crowd, did not appear to have noticed.

“He may be delayed,” Prudence mused aloud, her eyes narrowing. “But rest assured, he shall not neglect his duties. A gentleman always honors his obligations.”

And I am one such obligation, am I not?

Fiona adjusted her gloves with care, more for something to do than necessity. Under her mother’s gaze, she felt suddenly sluggish, too aware of every step, every breath. Her skin prickled beneath her gown, as though even the silk had turned critical.

Smile. Breathe. Do not ruin everything with a sigh.

“Chin up, brother. You must, at the very least, pretend you are not contemplating escape,” Elaine, his sister and the Marchioness of Darlington, said with the effortless cheer of someone far too accustomed to dragging her brother into society against his will.

Isaac Glacion did not bother to hide the snort that escaped him. “Society is not so easily deceived, Elaine dear,” he muttered, his gaze sweeping the ballroom with the reluctant air of a man surveying a battlefield.

They had only just crossed the threshold, yet the press of silks, perfumes, and forced laughter already scraped at his composure.

Were it not for Elaine’s persistent letters, pointed remarks, and final appeal to familial duty, he would not have stepped within fifty paces of this chandelier-laden cage.

He shifted slightly, adjusting his coat as they made their way through the crowd, trying—and failing—not to bristle under the weight of a hundred curious stares.

“They look as if I’ve emerged from some cursed tower,” he whispered tightly, leaning toward his sister.

“Well,” Elaine replied with maddening calm, “for many in this room, this is their first sighting of the elusive Duke of Craton. You can hardly blame them for being intrigued.”

Isaac slowly let out a breath. Intrigued, indeed. It felt far closer to being catalogued.

The gazes clung like cobwebs, speculative and shameless, as though each person were silently taking stock of the man behind the scandal-laced whispers. He could see the unspoken questions dancing behind fans and flutes of champagne. Is that the recluse? Does the scar go down his back? Is he truly as unfeeling as they say?

His eyes drifted across the ballroom, not looking for anyone or anything in particular—merely searching for the cleanest path to endure the evening.

And then he saw her.

Not a face he recognized, which in itself was surprising. Her gown was modest but exquisitely cut, her posture graceful, and her expression—he caught the moment she noticed him. Her eyes widened, just slightly, and then darted away with an almost endearing haste.

At least one woman in this place possesses the good sense to look away, he thought, a flicker of dry amusement catching him off guard. The rest, it seemed, would rather gawk than blink.

Elaine followed his gaze with ease—of course she noticed—and gave a light tap to his arm with her fan. “At the very least, glance around for a young lady to ask to dance. Or must I take matters into my own hands?”

“I agreed to attend. That alone should suffice,” Isaac said, straightening his cuffs with a purposeful slowness.

“It does not,” she replied smoothly. “It is not enough to grace the event with your presence if you intend to hover like a brooding statue.”

Her tone was familiar—admonishing, but warm. She had been like this for as long as he could remember. Older by five years and compelled by necessity to play the role their mother could not, Elaine had a talent for mixing affection with exasperation, often in equal measure.

She had been his fiercest ally, his most relentless conscience, and the only person whose judgment he did not resent. Even now, married and established in her own world, she continued to guide him as though he were still that solemn boy dragging his boots through Craton’s endless hallways.

“Must I remind you,” she added with an arch of her brow, “that eligible maidens do not materialize in dark libraries or stables?”

“I am not in search of one,” Isaac replied curtly.

Elaine smiled with infuriating patience. “You are not in search of anything , which is precisely the problem. Now, do go on. The musicians are preparing for a waltz, and the room is brimming with possibilities.”

Isaac looked to the dance floor again, where the strings were beginning to hum in anticipation. The crush of movement, the expectancy in the air—it felt suffocating.

But this was Elaine, and for her, he would try.

Even if I rather face a charging cavalry than a line of expectant debutantes.

“And to think I ever forget, even for a moment, how insufferably persistent you can be,” Isaac said, casting his sister a long-suffering glance.

Elaine, his sister and the Marchioness of Darlington, met it with a beatific smile—sweet, practiced, and as deceptive as it had been since childhood. He was not fooled.

He sighed through his nose and allowed his gaze to drift once more across the ballroom, past the gilded mouldings and sparkling chandeliers, beyond the sea of powdered wigs and jewel-toned gowns.

And then he saw her again.

The young woman from earlier, the one with the wide, startled eyes who had possessed the decency to look away. She was engaged in conversation now with an older woman—similar in bearing and fine features—no doubt her mother. Her expression was polite, though slightly strained, as if the conversation were not to her liking.

Beautiful, he thought, before he could stop himself. There was something arresting in the quiet grace of her posture, in the curve of her cheek, in the way she composed herself despite whatever discomfort lingered behind her eyes.

Elaine followed the direction of his gaze and arched a brow with approval. “A fine choice,” she murmured, a knowing lilt in her voice.

Isaac narrowed his eyes. “I did not say I had made one.”

“You did not have to,” she replied easily. “That is Lady Fiona Pierce. She has been considered a diamond since her debut. Her father is the Marquess of Holden.”

Isaac gave a low grunt of disinterest. “As though any of that holds the least bit of importance,” he muttered, even as his gaze remained fixed on Lady Fiona.

As if hearing her name, the lady looked up once more, and their eyes met again across the crowded room. Her expression shifted—yes, there it was, that same surprise from before, now tinged with something else. Hesitation, perhaps. Or discomfort.

Something has unsettled her, he thought. The light in her gaze dimmed ever so slightly, her shoulders more stiff than elegant.

It was a look he recognized—he had seen it in himself too many times.

She would do perfectly for a dance.

Not because of her title or her reputation, not even because of her beauty. But because something in her expression said she might rather be anywhere else, and yet she stood her ground regardless.

Yes. She will do just fine.