Page 44 of Duke of Wickedness (Regency Gods #4)

A t the end of her first Season, Ariadne had been practically giddy with relief.

At the end of subsequent Seasons, she’d felt a mixture of disappointment and exhausted pleasure—she hadn’t found a husband, she mused at the end of each year’s spate of social events, but at least she could take a break .

This year, she felt…

Well, she felt nothing about the Season, because she’d spent the whole time fluttering over David.

And she still was.

But at least she would still get a pause from…all of it. Maybe she would go to the country. The family still largely avoided the main Lightholder country seat, even more than a decade and a half after the fire, but there were other estates. Or perhaps she could go to Catherine and Percy’s estate.

Or a nunnery. Maybe she should try a nunnery. Were there any nunneries in England? Maybe on the Continent. Goodness knew this whole marriage thing hadn’t been working out.

“Good evening, Lady Ariadne.”

Ariadne turned toward a voice at her elbow to find Lord Ledbetter, one of the gentlemen who had danced with her a few times over the past few weeks. He was nice. He was handsome. He made decent conversation.

A year ago, Ariadne would have found him extremely appealing. Now, though, she had to make herself notice his finer attributes.

Just like she had to force herself not to notice that David was standing off to the side of the ballroom.

Lurking.

She called it that because tonight, at least, he was apparently trying not to look at her, something that she only recognized because he was staring back about half the time that she dared a glance in his direction.

The other times, he was staring at the floor or the ceiling or—most frequently—at the cup of lemonade in his hand.

Ariadne had drunk some of that lemonade earlier. She knew what it tasted like. It was not as fascinating as all that.

“Lord Ledbetter,” she said, hoping her smile seemed genuine. “How are you this evening?”

“I’m doing quite well, my lady; thank you for asking.

” He gave her a conspiratorial sort of smile.

Ariadne abstractly recognized that he was doing all the right things.

He was being polite, but wasn’t taking himself too seriously.

He was giving himself the opportunity to talk to her, but he wasn’t crowding her.

“Although,” he went on, “I admit, I am a bit weary of dancing. Would you forgive me if I don’t ask you to dance?”

Her lips twitched into a smile at that, one that wasn’t forced.

“An unconventional approach,” she said. “But I will forgive you, certainly—particularly as you give me an excuse to rest, as well. May I live to see the day when someone invents comfortable slippers that are still acceptable in the ballroom.”

It really wasn’t much, as far as quips went, but Lord Ledbetter smiled.

“My sister has similar complaints,” he said. “But hers aren’t restricted to shoes. She also has issues with stays, most of her dresses, and hairpins.”

“All very reasonable,” Ariadne said, relaxing into the conversation. She could barely feel David’s eyes on her. “Nothing worse than thinking you’ve undone your coiffure, laying your head down for the night, and getting jabbed directly in the skull.”

He winced sympathetically. “I don’t know that particular pain, but I cannot say that I envy you.”

“You’ll want to rethink your decision with that one, my lord.”

The drawling voice interrupted them, full of anger and condescension. Ariadne and Lord Ledbetter frowned, both of them, and turned to see Lord Hershire, a snarl twisting his features.

He didn’t look like the man who had initially approached Ariadne, all those months ago. That man had been all politeness, all surface. But the cracks were showing now. No—he was nothing but cracks now.

Lord Ledbetter shot a cautious glance at Ariadne before giving the viscount a distinctly chilly smile.

“I’m certain that I don’t know what you mean,” he said standoffishly. “Now, if you will excuse me, we were having a conversation?—”

“You’ll think she’s the kind of lady you want,” Hershire forged ahead, acting as though he hadn’t even heard Lord Ledbetter at all. “But she’s playing games with you. Frigid, she is. She’ll let you think that you mean something to her, and then laugh in your face when you show it.”

Oddly enough, Ariadne’s first instinct was to laugh in his face now. She’d felt bad about misleading him when he had first proposed, but his mischaracterization of that event now did make her want to mock him. The insult felt secondary to all of that absurdity.

“Apologize.”

Ariadne apparently was alone in her assessment of the situation—though it wasn’t, to her surprise, Lord Ledbetter who spoke.

It was David.

She gaped at him—as did Lord Ledbetter and Lord Hershire, the three of them united for a fleeting moment. Then Hershire sneered again, Ariadne felt her traitorous heart flutter, and Lord Ledbetter hastily extracted himself from the situation, not that Ariadne could blame him.

She would have liked to have been elsewhere, too.

“Oh, well, this makes perfect sense,” Hershire said in a nasty, snide sort of way. “No wonder she’s been so?—”

“I caution you, in the strongest terms possible, against finishing that sentence,” David said with a deadly sort of politeness. “Instead, you are going to apologize to the lady, and then you are going to walk away.”

Hershire, who evidently lacked a strong sense of self-preservation, scoffed.

“I don’t see any ladies here,” he snapped.

David smiled. It was about a thousand times more terrifying than if he had started swinging fists.

“I see,” he said, very, very calmly. “Well. I encourage you to remember this moment. When you find yourself turned away from every club in the city. When your invitations dry up. When you find yourself without allies, without partners in business, and without friends. When those things transpire, remember this moment.”

It was, as far as threats went, impressive. Even Ariadne was impressed, and she wasn’t the one being threatened.

“She isn’t worth any of that,” the viscount said.

“That,” David retorted with the same unshakeable calm, “is where you are wrong.”

Ariadne could tell, when the viscount walked away, that he thought he had won. She was almost sorry that she wouldn’t get to see that certainty fade away.

Any regret on that front paled, however, in comparison to the absolute fury she felt when she turned to look at David.

“You—” she started before cutting herself off.

If she let her temper off its leash, she wouldn’t stop until she’d gotten it all out of her system, and that, no doubt, would leave her red-faced and screaming in the middle of a ballroom.

That wasn’t what she wanted, and more than that, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

So she sucked it all back in, buried it all deep down. She leveled him with a stare, and then she turned on her heel and marched out to the garden, where she could detonate in peace.

Or, rather, where she could have detonated in peace if David hadn’t followed her.

But he did, and so she detonated in his direction.

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded the literal instant they were out of earshot of the party. “Really. Have you lost your godforsaken mind?”

David didn’t even protest, which made everything so much worse.

“Oh, it’s very likely,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck miserably.

This did not make her feel less inclined toward yelling.

“You made all this fuss about discretion—” In this moment, Ariadne did not deign to recognize that she appreciated this discretion, actually. “—and then you threaten a viscount in the middle of the ballroom? Do you really think people won’t talk?”

“I know,” he said miserably. “I’m sorry.”

“And who gave you the right?” she went on, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “You sent me away. Do you remember that? You were the one who sent me away!”

“I did,” he admitted.

“And then with the staring ,” she spat. “You keep staring . Staring like—like I matter .”

“You do matter,” he said.

“Don’t,” she warned darkly. “You broke my heart,” she said, hating the way her voice caught in her throat.

“I tried not to let you, but you did . And now you’re doing it again, because you look at me like…

like I’m the last person on earth, when I know you don’t feel that way.

And why, David? Why? Is this fun for you?

Are you just torturing me for pleasure?”

“God, no ,” he said, and this time, his voice broke too. “I… Christ, Ariadne, I’m so sorry. I know I need to leave you be. I know. I want to set you free. I want you to be happy. But I just—I can’t help myself.”

He reached out a hand in her direction, and if she’d thought he looked like a fallen angel before it was nothing compared to the way he looked now, all anguish and misery and pain. He snatched his hand back before he made contact.

“I’m so selfish,” he said, his voice quiet. “Because I know I can’t have you. But I can’t let you go. I’m like a moth to a flame. I—I want you so much that it defies logic. I can barely breathe for wanting you. But I can’t have you.”

Like the flame he had named her, Ariadne felt a flicker of something deep inside her. She didn’t yet dare to call it hope.

“Why not?” she asked.

He froze like she’d thrown a bucket of water over him.

“What?” he asked, looking numb.

That bold little flame flickered, held, grew.

“Why can’t you have me?” she pressed.

He looked so wretched that she ached to comfort him, but she couldn’t, at least not yet. This—this was important. She felt herself on the cusp of understanding something that had previously eluded her.

“I…” He looked very young and very lost. “I told you about my father,” he said.

She nodded. “You did.”

“But I didn’t tell you—” He cleared his throat. “My mother. I told you part of it, but I didn’t really explain.” His sentences came choppy, rough, like they were hard to put together. “She—My father. He broke her.”