Page 28 of Duke of Wickedness (Regency Gods #4)

But following those rules had come with its own cost. It had been hard , seeking to perform all the time.

And yes, she would still have to play the part to a certain degree—nobody could ever be truly themselves in such a large group, particularly not when reputation was the preferred currency of that group—but this dress?

She’d chosen this dress for herself. She liked it. She liked how it made her feel.

Rules be damned.

That said, she did not want Catherine asking any questions about this supposed newfound confidence.

“Oh, a new dress will do that, I suppose,” she said dismissively. “It always feels good, looking one’s best, doesn’t it? Anyway,” she went on before Catherine could say more, “where has Percy gotten to? I cannot imagine that he let you attend this event without an escort.”

People in love were so easy to distract, Ariadne thought with gratitude. It really did make lying ever so much easier.

“Oh, he’s around here somewhere,” Catherine said absently. “He and David are off doing whatever it is they do.”

And, just like that, Ariadne enjoyed swift retribution for her falsehoods. She struggled against the urge to react, and instead gazed absently into the crowd as though disinterested.

“Hm,” she said. “Men.”

Apparently, her airy dismissiveness didn’t hit quite the right note, as Catherine laughed as though Ariadne had told a particularly hilarious joke.

“Just so,” she agreed.

Ariadne didn’t trust her cheeks not to flame and give her away if she looked at her sister, so she treated the ball as though it were terribly fascinating. Catherine drifted away in the direction of her husband, but Ariadne stayed where she was, craving a moment to just be.

It took her mere seconds to meet David’s eyes, as though they’d been drawn together by an invisible string.

There was a crowd between them, dozens of dancers who flitted in and out of their line of sight, flashing color and swirling skirts.

None of it felt as easy to see as David’s hazel eyes, piercing her even from across the room.

She needed to stop looking at him. She was in the middle of a Society ballroom; if she kept this up, someone would notice, and then there would be talk.

It wouldn’t be flattering, either—not only would it be scandalous, but everyone would consider her to be completely pathetic.

She’d be cast as a tragic former wallflower, not even popular enough to get a proposal from a regular man—since nobody knew about the terrible attempt at a proposal that had come from Lord Hershire, thank goodness—let alone from the famously elusive Duke of Wilds.

And that was the best-case scenario. More likely, they’d assume that she’d succumbed to his charms.

Worse, they’d be correct.

“Oh, Ariadne, hello!”

Ariadne turned to see Phoebe Turner smiling at her, a knowing but still entirely friendly look on her face.

“Good evening, Phoebe,” Ariadne replied, feeling her own smile bloom. It was easy to like Miss Turner. Something about those hopelessly round cheeks and the impish air tempted one into confession.

“I love your frock,” Phoebe said, reaching out to touch the vibrant silk with a faintly covetous finger. This would have seemed rude from someone else, brazen even. But from Phoebe, it just seemed cheerful. The kind of thing a close friend would do.

“I was feeling bold,” Ariadne confessed. “You should have seen the look on my modiste’s face when I chose this color.”

Phoebe laughed, big and bold, without any effort to stifle the sound.

“Did she look impressed at your good taste? Because if not, she should reconsider. You ought to be bold more often. You look marvelous.”

Ariadne felt lighter just from a few moments of talking with Phoebe, even though she could see that the girl was casting daring glances in David’s direction.

It didn’t make Ariadne feel fretful, however, knowing that Phoebe was clearly putting the pieces together. It made her feel lucky to have someone with whom she could be honest—or as honest as she could afford to be in the middle of a Mayfair ballroom.

“Your escort is watching.” Phoebe cut her eyes away from David several seconds before she made this observation, and Ariadne appreciated the discretion.

It was nice to know someone who was even bigger trouble than Ariadne herself.

“Don’t say anything,” Ariadne chided, her lips trembling against the laughter that wanted to bubble free.

“Who me?” Phoebe’s innocent act was even more unbelievable than the most transparent lie Ariadne had ever told.

Ariadne laughed harder and, soon enough, Phoebe joined her.

“So, that is…going well, then?” Phoebe said when their laughter faded.

Ariadne huffed out an exasperated breath. She wanted to look at David, but she stopped herself at the very last moment.

“That’s a really good question,” Ariadne said. “I will let you know when I have an answer.”

The other night at the party had been incredible.

Ariadne had no complaints about that. Good God, she had the farthest thing from complaint.

She’d spent half her waking hours last week daydreaming about all the things she had seen.

They didn’t all appeal to her personally, but she’d been so overwhelmed by the idea that everyone there had seemed so…

Free.

It was the opposite of the way she’d been living for so long, trying to follow every rule all of the time, trying to organize every aspect of her life so that nobody ever told her that she’d erred.

It had been like seeing a slice of heaven itself, seeing how gloriously and expansively everyone had expressed themselves.

And that was before she even got to the parts that did appeal to her personally.

And that was before she got to the things that had been done to her. Very, very personally.

She blinked, pushing aside those thoughts before Phoebe could see anything on her face.

“It’s hard to know what comes next in this kind of situation,” she said, choosing her words carefully, knowing this was hopelessly vague. That was, after all, part of the problem. Things were vague between her and David. When was their bargain discharged?

Apparently not today, given the way he was still looking at her.

She had started to wonder. She hadn’t heard from David since the party. Did that mean things were done between them? The idea had stung, but she’d rejected that sting.

She didn’t get to feel hurt when this was over. Not when she’d known what their bargain entailed. And what it didn’t.

Phoebe huffed out a breath that was full of frustration and commiseration.

“Far be it from me to recommend the conventional path,” she said, “but I suppose it does provide something in terms of clarity. It’s a straight road, one we’ve been taught to navigate since we heard our first tales in the nursery. Man—” She held out one hand. “Woman—” The other hand. “Marriage.”

She clapped them together, then looked sourly at her clasped fingers.

Ariadne laughed again.

“You couldn’t even make it through one sentence recommending it,” she commented. “Your reputation as a dissenter is secure.”

Phoebe pressed a hand to the back of her forehead. “Oh, good. I was worried.”

Phoebe had to leave after that to fulfill a promise listed on her dance card. Ariadne stayed in place and did not look for David.

She didn’t look.

She didn’t look.

She—damn it all . She glanced around the room and found him having a conversation with a gentleman about his age, though Ariadne didn’t recognize the man specifically. It took him less than a breath to look in her direction, as though he, too, could feel it whenever she was paying him attention.

She worried that the shiver that coursed through her would be visible all the way across the room.

“Good evening, Lady Ariadne.”

Ariadne should have been relieved that someone called her name, that someone drew her attention away from David when she failed to do so herself.

She was not. She was definitely not.

“Good evening, Lord Westcliff,” she said to the earl standing before her.

She knew the earl by reputation alone, but he was supposed to be a good enough sort.

Young, and had recently inherited his title.

Wealthy and well-positioned, but not enough that he wouldn’t benefit from association with the Lightholders.

“If your card is not already full, I was hoping that I might ask you to do me the honor of a dance,” he said with a polite bow.

It was a nice show of manners, but there was the faintest glimmer of mischief and flirtation in his eye. In another circumstance, Ariadne might have been interested in that look, and Lord only knew that the man, with his dark hair and piercing green eyes, was more than attractive enough.

Now, though, he seemed to be nothing but a pale imitation of a man with twice the gleam and ten times the mischief.

Still, there was wearing a slightly bold gown, and there was outright refusing a dance for no reason at all—and they were two starkly different levels of rebellion when it came to Society’s rules.

Besides, Ariadne needed not to be standing here, staring.

“I’d be delighted,” she said. “I have the next dance free, if you are available.”

He did, indeed, have the next dance free, so Ariadne took his proffered hand and let him lead her into a country reel that left her breathless.

In the few snatches of conversation that she managed to share with Lord Westcliff, he was funny, charming, but not unkind.

She felt…nothing.

Well, no, that was a lie. She felt a piercing gaze upon her, but it did not belong to Lord Westcliff.

The only positive in the entire situation is that Lord Westcliff did not seem to experience any burning passion for her, either.

He gave her another bow and a smile as they parted ways, but there was no reference to another meeting, no suggestion that he would stop by her house with flowers the next day.

There was no suggestion, in short, that this would be like the matter with Lord Hershire all over again.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, my lady,” the earl said politely.

“And you, my lord,” she returned.

It was all so…bland. Excruciatingly so. How had she managed to get through years of these boring conversations?

The next dance was no better. It was no worse, but no better. She danced a reel with Lord Bennet, then a waltz with Mr. Thompkins, then a country dance with Viscount Griswold, who was nearly seventy years old and already married, but he loved to dance, and his wife used a cane.

Well. She actually did enjoy that last one.

“You make me feel like a very young man, Lady Ariadne,” the viscount said, bending over to kiss her hand warmly. “My lady likes it when I look impressive and sprightly, so you’ve done an old pile like me a great service.”

He tilted his head over toward a seated elderly lady, who took one hand off her brass-handled cane to wave cheerfully in their direction.

She enjoyed those three minutes when she didn’t feel David’s eyes on her. She enjoyed them, and she hated them, too, because if she couldn’t dance with him, at least she could know he was there.

It hurt to look across the room and be able to find him again. It felt amazing.

Nobody came up to claim her next dance, which was also wonderful and terrible, because she couldn’t tear her eyes away from David.

She was right back where she started, drawn into him for the third time this evening, ridiculous as this clearly made her.

Only now all the dancing had warmed her, and that heat built and built as they looked at one another for so long—too long.

Eventually, she couldn’t take it any longer.

She held his eyes for one moment longer and lifted her chin.

A challenge. An invitation.

And then she turned and headed out to the garden.