Page 2

CHAPTER 2

I saac took a step forward, careful not to appear as though he were being hunted by the dozens of eager eyes trailing his every movement.

The lady in question—Lady Fiona Pierce, if Elaine’s memory still served—stood a few feet ahead, conversing with a woman who bore such a marked resemblance to her that she could only be her mother. Her profile was lovely, composed yet distant, and unlike the rest of the fluttering debutantes scattered about the ballroom, Lady Fiona did not look as though she might burst into delighted shrieks should he so much as nod in her direction.

God knows that’s already more than can be said of most here tonight.

Elaine had vanished somewhere behind him, likely gone to seek out her set of friends—perhaps to observe this interaction from a safe but smug distance. He didn’t blame her. This had been her idea, after all.

Drawing a breath that tasted of rosewater and polished silver, Isaac crossed the final steps that separated him from the Pierce ladies. The older woman turned first, her expression faltering the moment she recognized him. Shock danced across her face like lightning over a still pond, swiftly followed by a nervous sort of reverence—an instinctive response, he supposed, to encountering a man often whispered about but rarely seen.

She looked as though she might faint or flee. Possibly both.

He didn’t care.

He offered a bow. “Lady Fiona,” he said, his tone cool and clipped. “Might I request the honour of this dance?”

The matron—presumably the Marchioness of Holden—began to part her lips, no doubt to concoct a gentle excuse to shield her daughter from his company.

But before a word could escape her, Lady Fiona stepped forward. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said, voice even. “It would be my pleasure.”

It was not what he’d expected. Not in the slightest.

He extended his arm, and she placed her hand upon it with practiced grace. As he led her away, he could feel the gaze of the marchioness boring into his back, rigid with maternal apprehension. She looked perilously close to following after them, but decency—thankfully—seemed to prevail.

The room parted for them with the same reverent hush that might accompany royalty, or something far more terrifying. Whispers fluttered like leaves in the wake of a storm, curiosity thick in the air as they reached the edge of the dance floor.

He positioned her for the waltz, his hand settling lightly at her waist, the other clasping hers. The music began.

Their movements were in perfect step, not a falter between them, yet their silence stretched long enough to be notable. Just the way he preferred it.

And then she ruined it.

“It is quite a lovely evening, is it not?” she said, her voice pleasant and smooth, but lacking any real conviction.

He glanced down at her, one brow raised. “You do not sound nearly as enthused as your words suggest, Lady Fiona.”

A slight blush rose on her cheeks, but she held his gaze.

“You need not feel obligated to make conversation on my account,” he added, not unkindly, but with the blunt honesty he never bothered to temper. “I have no expectation of pleasantries. Nor any use for them.”

For a moment, she looked stunned, as though uncertain whether to be insulted or impressed. Then something shifted.

The softness in her expression sharpened.

“I assure you, Your Grace,” she said, her voice lifting ever so slightly, “I feel no obligation whatsoever. And if I did not know better, I should say you are not overly enthusiastic about the evening yourself.”

Her tone held the faintest edge now—a flicker of challenge dancing behind her eyes.

Well, well. Isaac arched a brow at her, the edge of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Then we are agreed, Lady Fiona,” he said smoothly. “Two unwilling participants, dancing out of sheer obligation. How romantic.”

She returned his look with a dry one of her own, the ghost of a smile flickering across her lips. “At least you are a duke,” she muttered beneath her breath, more to herself than to him, “and therefore immune to having obligations thrust upon you.”

But he heard her. And it amused him more than it should have.

If only you knew, my lady, he thought, glancing sidelong at Elaine, who stood at the edge of the ballroom looking positively triumphant. She caught his gaze and raised her fan in the faintest of salutes.

“Do not be so certain,” he said aloud, returning his attention to Lady Fiona. “Even dukes are not exempt from manipulation—particularly when sisters are involved.”

She gave a light huff of breath—was it a laugh or a sigh? He could not quite tell. Still, her posture eased ever so slightly, and for a brief moment, the dance felt less like a sentence and more like a shared reprieve.

Then the music ended, and with it, the spell.

“Craton,” came a voice like gravel coated in silk.

Isaac turned his head sharply. Every muscle in his frame went taut.

Aaron Finch, the Earl of Canterlack, stood before them, his hand extended toward Lady Fiona, his expression one of politeness so brittle it might shatter under closer inspection.

“I shall take matters from here,” Canterlack said smoothly.

Isaac’s jaw tightened. The last man he wished to encounter tonight, or ever, stood mere feet from him, and though Aaron wore his usual veneer of civility, Isaac could read the disdain beneath it like a ledger.

Lady Fiona hesitated only a fraction before placing her hand into the earl’s. The moment she did, Canterlack drew her to his side with just enough force to rouse Isaac’s ire.

“Easy with the lady,” Isaac said, his tone low, edged with warning.

“Oh, I must have stumbled on my hem,” Lady Fiona said quickly, her voice light, followed by a nervous laugh. “How clumsy of me.”

But Isaac wasn’t fooled. There had been no stumble. Only discomfort.

His eyes swept over her—no bruised pride or twisted ankle, but something had shifted. The spark she’d carried during their dance, the subtle defiance and wit—it had dimmed the moment her hand touched Canterlack’s.

“You heard her,” Canterlack said, that same smug challenge dancing behind his calm exterior. “She stumbled, Craton.”

Isaac’s gaze remained fixed on the earl, unflinching. “It seems the years have not burdened you with any newfound compassion,” he said evenly. “Nor shame, for that matter. Particularly where the treatment of ladies is concerned.”

That landed. Briefly, Canterlack’s eyes narrowed.

“I do not see you for years,” the earl replied with a snort of disdain, “and yet the first time I do, you are making wild accusations and attempting to order me about.”

Isaac’s silence was sharp, seething beneath a mask of civility. Nothing changes. Not the lies, not the arrogance, and certainly not the way he handles women.

Lady Fiona looked between them now, brows furrowing, her mouth parting as if she meant to speak but thought better of it. Uncertainty clouded her features, as though she wished to intercede yet understood that whatever lay between them stretched far beyond a single evening.

The tension in the air was near suffocating. Isaac could feel it crawling beneath his skin.

He gave a curt nod. “Enjoy the remainder of your evening, Lady Fiona.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the stifling atmosphere behind. But even as the crowd swallowed him once more, a single question lingered in his thoughts, pressing insistently:

What is she to him, that she should look so subdued?

The Lady Fiona who had sparred with him mere moments ago had vanished the instant Canterlack laid claim to her hand. Isaac could not help but find that change… unsettling.

What on earth had that been?

Fiona’s thoughts spun in quiet disarray as Canterlack led her from the dance floor with a grip that bordered on firm. The lingering tension between him and the Duke clung to her, leaving her unsettled in a way she could not name.

The chill in the air between the two men had not been imagined, nor had the glint of long-held resentment she’d seen in the Duke’s eyes. She had half a mind to ask Aaron about it, to inquire into the origin of such animosity, but thought better of it.

It would do no good to invite another lecture or thinly veiled dismissal.

“I daresay I ought to give you more of my attention at these events if it shall keep you away from unsavoury company,” Aaron said lightly, his chuckle thin as he guided her toward the floor where the quadrille was forming.

Fiona blinked at him. Unsavoury company?

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, her tone dipped in polite confusion.

“Craton,” he said smoothly, as if discussing the weather. “He is not a man you should find yourself speaking to. Let alone dancing with.”

There was a warning in his voice, subtle yet unmistakable—like the blade of a knife concealed beneath velvet.

“But he approached me, ” Fiona replied, trying not to sound defensive. “And requested the honour of a dance. Am I to scandalise the room by refusing a duke’s invitation?”

Aaron’s smile remained, though it hardened at the edges. “Of course not. Perish the thought.”

She watched him closely. The lines of his mouth were still, but something cold had crept into his eyes.

“I only wish for your safety, Fiona dear,” he added, as if that explained everything.

She managed a small, hesitant nod, but unease stirred within her like a rising tide. The dance began, and she followed the steps out of habit, her mind elsewhere.

Why does that sound less like affection and more like ownership?

By the time the dance ended, she felt wrung out. The pressure of his arm, the subtle barbs behind his words, the sense of being ushered about rather than courted—it all pressed heavily on her chest.

“I shall excuse myself for a moment,” she said quietly, not waiting for permission.

In the retiring room, she splashed cool water on her wrists, willing herself to be calm. But the walls felt too close, the air too thick. And so, rather than return to the crush of music and expectation, she slipped through the nearest side door and into the garden.

The night air met her skin like a balm. It was quieter here. Calmer.

She wandered down the gravel path, further than she meant to, drawn by the promise of solitude. The hedges rose high around her, tall enough to shield her from the world.

And then she stopped short.

Her heart lodged in her throat.

There, beneath the arching branches of a secluded trellis, stood Aaron.

Or rather, Aaron entwined—shirt loosened, cravat askew, hands not where they ought to be—with the very same woman he had danced with earlier.

They did not see her. Did not hear her soft intake of breath. So engrossed were they in their kiss, in the sinuous curve of bodies pressed scandalously close.

Fiona’s breath caught. Her stomach twisted.

She turned without a sound, her steps light and fast as she retraced her path, this time nearly at a run. Her vision blurred, and it was not until she reached the shadows near the ballroom doors that she realised she was trembling.

Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

How dare he. How utterly dare he.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. She danced when prompted. She smiled when spoken to, but she felt as though she were floating just above the surface of her life, detached and untethered.

One thought echoed with terrible clarity. *I cannot marry him. Not after this. Not ever. *She would speak to her parents, and the sooner, the better.

The moment they returned home from the ball, Prudence Pierce gave an exaggerated yawn and declared, “Oh, I am positively exhausted. I shall retire at once.”

She did not so much as glance at Fiona as she handed off her shawl to a maid and ascended the staircase like a woman who had fulfilled her social obligations and expected commendation for it.

Fiona stood at the base of the stairs, watching her mother disappear. She could not quite decide whether she felt relieved or abandoned. Not that she’d expected anything different.

“Where is my father?” she asked the butler.

“His Lordship is presently out, My Lady, and has not yet returned.”

That decided it. She would wait until morning.

They must both be present, she reasoned. And fully alert. This is not a conversation to be had when half-asleep or hiding behind excuses.

Yet sleep refused her.

She tossed in her bed beneath layers of linen and lace, her mind looping ceaselessly through what she had seen in the garden. The trellis, the moonlight, Aaron’s hands where they had no right to be. The kiss. The woman. The betrayal.

She stared at the ceiling until the shadows began to fade and the sky lightened behind the draperies.

By the time she descended the stairs the next morning, she was pale and exhausted, but no less determined.

“You really ought to take better care of yourself, Fiona,” Prudence said the moment she took her seat at the breakfast table. “Have you seen your eyes this morning? Puffy and dark as soot. Quite unbecoming.”

Fiona reached for her teacup. “I could not sleep.”

Prudence snorted lightly. “And what, pray, could keep you awake at night? You’ve no responsibilities beyond choosing a gown and remembering which fork to use.”

Fiona glanced down at her untouched plate. “May I speak with you both? It is a matter of some consequence.”

Lord Holden, seated behind the broadsheet, lowered it by an inch to peer at her. “What has you wriggling like a mouse?”

“It concerns the Earl of Canterlack,” Fiona said.

The paper fell completely.

“What about him?” Prudence asked sharply, pausing mid-slice of her toast.

Fiona steadied herself. “I cannot marry him.”

The silence that followed wound every nerve in her body.