Page 57

T he evening was precisely as tedious as Marjory had feared.

She had danced. She had smiled. She had responded appropriately to every polite inquiry, every empty remark about the fine weather and the success of the Season thus far.

All the while, she kept her senses keenly attuned to that elusive scent.

But with each passing hour, disappointment settled heavier in her chest.

She endured Verity’s murmured appraisals of the gentlemen present and suffered through introductions to a string of men who blurred together into one indistinguishable mass of mediocre conversation and stiff cravats.

The memory of spice and shadow teased her, and a quiet frustration simmered beneath her courteous facade.

Stifling another yawn, she shifted her weight, trying to ease the ache in her feet.

Verity remained unshaken in her enthusiasm.

Of course, she was not the one dancing her legs off with one insipid man after another, nor was she haunted by the phantom scent of cloves that refused to grace the stagnant air of Almack’s.

Marjory’s gaze swept the room once more, a silent plea cast into the sea of interchangeable faces.

But there was nothing. No trace of him. No dry, self-assured tone cutting through the drone of conversation. Just the relentless tide of tedium pulling her under.

Marjory recognized the gleam in Verity’s eyes—a predatory spark that signaled another unwelcome introduction.

A knot tightened in her stomach as her cousin’s grip latched onto her arm, the sharp tug propelling her forward.

Resignation settled over her like a heavy cloak, and she fought the urge to dig in her heels.

“Oh, this is excellent,” Verity breathed, her gaze fixed across the room.

Marjory did not like the sound of that. “What is excellent?” she asked.

Verity turned to her with a triumphant gleam. “The Marquess of Westfield has arrived.” She latched onto Marjory’s arm and yanked her forward.

“Would you at least tell me which man we are hurtling toward like a cannonball?” she muttered under her breath.

“Standing next to the pillar. The one with blond hair,” Verity said without breaking stride. “Now hurry up before someone gets there before us. Westfield is one of the Earl’s top picks for you.”

Her gaze reluctantly tracked across the ballroom until it landed on a wiry man leaning against a marble pillar.

His blond hair gleamed under the chandelier light, every strand sculpted into place like gilded threads.

There was something statuesque and lifeless about him, as though he were carved from the same cold stone he leaned upon.

A chill brushed over her skin despite the warmth of the crowded room.

An icy thread of foreboding wove its way up her spine as she noted the hard lines of his face—the severe cheekbones, the thin slash of a mouth that held no hint of kindness.

His eyes, pale and unfeeling, roamed over the crowd with the detached disinterest of a predator too accustomed to easy prey.

As they drew nearer, her steps grew heavy, each one a deliberate effort against the growing weight of dread settling in her stomach. The longer she studied the Marquess’ disdainful gaze and the predatory tilt of his smile, the more certain she grew that she wanted nothing to do with this man.

She dug her heels in and pulled against Verity’s tow. “The Earl’s judgment is worse than I feared,” Marjory snapped, bitterly disappointed that her cousin would ever consider shackling her to such a man.

Verity spun to face her. The veneer of cheery determination cracked to reveal a steely resolve. “You forget yourself,” she hissed, digging her fingers into Marjory’s arm. “You’d do well to remember the Earl’s generosity extends only so far.”

Chastised, Marjory bowed her head in apology.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” She truly had no quarrel with Norman and Verity.

It was the society and its insistence that young women should be identically molded like a row of pretty marzipan figures in some grand display window: sweet, delicate, and entirely ornamental.

Verity instantly softened. “I know it’s a long evening. Do try to buck up. Westfield has ties to the prince, you know.”

Marjory couldn’t have cared less, but she painted on a smile and prepared to endure the next trial of the evening.

“Lord Westfield, may I present my dear cousin, Lady Marjory Finch,” Verity said with far too much enthusiasm.

“Lady Marjory,” he intoned, his voice as flat as his gaze.

She dipped into a curtsey, the motion mechanical. “My Lord.”

Silence stretched between them like a chasm. Marjory could almost hear the ticking of an unseen clock counting the wasted seconds. She searched his face for any sign of warmth or interest but found only a stiff mask of indifference.

“I trust the evening meets with your satisfaction,” he finally said.

“It exceeds all expectations,” she replied, her words laced with a subtle irony that sailed unnoticed over his head.

Another pause.

Verity babbled on about the restrained elegance of Almack’s and the latest scandal involving Lord Beveridge’s outrageous losses at cards. Marjory’s thoughts drifted as she searched for a clock. Verity had said they must stay at least until after midnight.

Amid the constant shifting of the crowd, a distinct scent cut through—the sharp, exotic aroma of cloves. It wrapped around her senses, pulling her from the dull confines of forced conversation. Her heart gave an involuntary leap as she turned, seeking the source and drawing a deep inhalation.

The snap of Verity's fan drew her attention back. “You look like a hound catching a scent,” Verity muttered behind the satin and lace.

Marjory ignored her as she caught sight of broad shoulders moving confidently through the crush of people. She recognized that movement, that confidence.

There he was—a silhouette of broad shoulders and effortless grace, moving through the throng like a wolf among sheep. The sight of him ignited a spark within her, a flicker of something wild and untamed.

Without a second thought, Marjory stepped away from Verity and Lord Westfield. The din of the ballroom faded, the colors and sounds blending into a blur as her focus narrowed solely on him. Her pulse thrummed in her ears as a single intent beat with each one— don’t lose him.

A hand grasped at her elbow. “Marjory!” Verity’s voice was a sharp whisper, laced with confusion and reprimand. “What are you doing?”

Marjory glanced back. “Something I must,” she said, giving her an apologetic look.

With a firm twist, she slipped free from Verity’s grasp and plunged into the churning crowd. The press of bodies closed around her, and for once, she was grateful for the crush. Conversation swirled—a languid mix of gossip and polite laughter masking judgment.

Her heart beat wildly. Fear whispered at the edges of her resolve, but excitement flared brighter—igniting, consuming doubt, fueling courage.

She wove through clusters of guests, eliciting indignant huffs and sharp glances as she brushed past without apology. The scent of cloves teased her senses, drawing her like a siren’s call.

There he was—a broad silhouette moving with effortless grace. He navigated the throng with ease, as if society parted willingly before him. The sight of him sent a thrill coursing through her—a heady mix of defiance and something more dangerous.

Without hesitation, she stepped boldly into his path.

He halted, surprise flickering across his features.

The candlelight played over his face, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and the unyielding bridge of his nose.

His eyes met hers—deep, mesmerizing green flecked with gold, not the gentle hue of a summer meadow but the intense gleam of emeralds caught in firelight.

They held her captive, suspended in a moment that stretched beyond reason.

A stray lock of hair brushed his forehead. Absently, he tucked it behind his ear before adjusting his cravat. The edge of a jagged pale scar peeked above the silk—a silent confirmation that sent her heart galloping once more.

Conversations around them faltered. Curious gazes turned their way as fans snapped open to hide shocked whispers. She had breached decorum in the most brazen manner, approaching a gentleman without introduction. A hint of uncertainty shadowed his gaze as he studied her, frowning ever so slightly.

The thrill of being the hunter rather than the hunted sang through Marjory’s veins. Her heart raced with a sense of power she’d never known—a renegade’s glee. For this fleeting moment, she held the reins, and it sent a heady mix of delight and audacity coursing through her.

With a sweet smile, she dropped into a curtsy that would make Abigail proud. “My Lord,” she said, keeping her voice steady. As she rose, she pinned him with a steely gaze and added in an undertone, “It’s your move now.”

He regarded her with that cool, penetrating gaze, the velvet timbre of his voice sending a shiver along her spine. “You have me at a disadvantage, My Lady.”

“Lady Marjory Finch,” she replied, acutely aware of the scandalized gazes upon them as she further unraveled the delicate fabric of social convention.

At least Lady Harrington will get the scandal she was hoping for.

A slow smile curled his lips, something wicked and tantalizing playing at the edges. “Richard Hoskins, Duke of Sherton.”

Her stomach dropped, a swooping sensation that left her both exhilarated and unnerved.

The Duke of Sherton—a reformist whose very name stirred whispers in drawing rooms and set tongues wagging behind gloved hands.

A man enveloped in mystery and shadow, far more than the mere scoundrel she had imagined.

“Are you unwell, Lady Marjory?” His gaze flickered with restrained amusement. “You appear rather flushed.”

Heat blossomed beneath her skin, creeping up her neck to settle in her cheeks. “I—I am quite well, Your Grace.” She inhaled, the air thick and unsteady in her lungs. “In fact…” She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes with newfound boldness. “… would you care to dance?”

The words hung between them, a daring challenge that stole the breath from her lungs the moment they escaped.

The people around them seemed to lean in a little as they watched the drama unfold.

A lady did not ask a gentleman to dance.

The notion was scandalous, a brazen defiance of every rule etched into the foundations of the venerated establishment.

The Duke stilled, and the amusement in his eyes deepened into something more intriguing. “Are you always so bold?” he asked.

She allowed a hint of a smile to touch her lips. “Only when necessary.”

His quiet chuckle wrapped around her like a dark velvet ribbon, pulling her inexorably closer. “Are you sure you do not need to sit a moment? Perhaps a refreshment before we make a spectacle of ourselves?”

“No,” she replied, the word steady and clear. “I simply want to dance.”

A fleeting pause, and his expression shifted into something close to respect. “Well then,” he offered his hand with a slight bow. “It is not my place to deny a lady her desires.”

She placed her hand in his, and an electrifying current of recognition shot through her.

The memory of being held securely in the shadows, his firm presence against her back, flooded her senses.

His fingers were cool against her heated skin, mimicking the same mix of intimidation and allure that had left her breathless and intrigued.

As he led her onto the dance floor, the whispers swelled around them like a rising tide, but she paid them no heed.

As they took their places, Richard wrapped an arm around her, drawing her irresistibly closer.

The touch was deliberately possessive, a tether that held her fast even as her mind cried out against the warming familiarity of it.

His heat pressed through the light muslin of her gown, tying her emotions into knots of conflicting desires.

A part of her resented the power he wielded over her senses, the way her breath hitched at the mere nearness of him.

And yet, she could not deny his pull. His scent of cloves teased her senses, bringing to mind how he’d taunted her about games in the dark.

Focus. You’re here for answers. Don’t get lost in the allure of a dance that should never have been.

His warm fingers pressed lightly against her back, and she followed his lead as they fell into step. The music flowed around them—a symphony of sweet seduction and defiance. She moved with him, steadying her thoughts and her nerves. The music wouldn’t last forever.

“You’re an excellent dancer, Your Grace,” she said, opening the conversation.

He gave her a lopsided grin. “I like to dance when I am inspired to.”

“And is the inspiration sufficient?”

“More than,” he said, giving her a lingering look before he leaned in. His breath came as a tantalizing whisper against her ear. “What is it you want from me, My Lady?”

Her pulse quickened, words conjured from a place deeper than reason. “I wanted you to know,” she murmured, her gaze locking with his, “that this wildcat has claws.”

A spark of surprise lit his eyes, followed by a slow, genuine smile that stirred something dangerously exhilarating within her. “Is that so?” His voice was a rich, intimate undertone. “Then let us see,” he whispered, his gaze never leaving hers, “just how sharp those claws are.”