Page 17 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

Norfolk’s gaze immediately sought out Miss Charlotte, who sat in the front row completely unaware of the trap being laid in her name.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and Leila felt her stomach churn at the hungry expression spreading across his fleshy features.

She could practically see his mind working, imagining what he hoped to achieve in that secluded gazebo.

Instead, he would fall into her trap.

This was a risky plan, but risk was all Leila had left.

She patted the dagger she kept pressed against her spine in a special concealed pocket of her gown.

She was ready.

But as the minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness, Norfolk remained firmly planted in his seat. He shifted restlessly, his eyes darting between Miss Charlotte and the windows overlooking the gardens, but he showed no signs of actually leaving the drawing room.

Leila’s heart began to sink as frustration and panic built in her chest. Had she completely misread his character? Was he more cautious than she’d credited him for? Or perhaps his desires weren’t strong enough to overcome his natural cowardice?

Whatever had gone wrong, she needed to come up with another plan to trap Gideon alone outside—and quickly.

Setting up another liaison seemed logical, albeit a riskier plan. What if he suspected her? In that case, her attack wouldn’t catch him by surprise, and beyond that, she had no power over him.

The dagger felt like it was burning against her spine, a constant reminder of what she needed to accomplish and what was at stake if she failed.

Just as the first half of the musical program was concluding, Lady Payne rose from her place at the pianoforte and clapped her hands for attention.

“I thought our guests might enjoy a bit of dancing before we continue with the performances,” she announced with bright enthusiasm. “Footmen, please be so kind as to move the chairs to the walls.”

The servants immediately sprang into action, efficiently clearing the center of the room to create an impromptu dance floor.

Lady Payne took her place at the pianoforte and began the opening measures of a stately minuet. The familiar melody filled the room, and couples began to form and move to the center of the dance floor.

“You owe me a dance.”

The voice came from directly behind her, low and warm, sending an immediate shiver down her spine. Leila’s heart began to flutter wildly, her stomach performing acrobatics that she desperately tried to attribute to fear rather than the far more dangerous emotion threatening to overwhelm her.

She turned slowly, fighting to keep her expression composed, and found herself looking up into those silvery-gray eyes that seemed to see far too much. Gideon stood close enough that she could smell his cologne—sandalwood, cedar, and his own heady masculine scent.

“Do I?” she managed to say, proud that her voice remained steady despite the chaos in her head.

“You fled the Kensington ball rather abruptly,” he said, extending his hand with that slight smile that always made her pulse race, “after promising me one.”

She placed her gloved hand in his, trying to ignore the way heat seemed to race up her arm from that simple contact. Even through the thin fabric of her glove, she could feel the warmth and strength of his fingers as they closed around hers.

They began to move together in the measured, elegant steps of the minuet, and despite everything—her mission, her fears, the very real danger she was in—Leila found herself lost in the perfection of the moment.

His hand was warm and sure, guiding her through the patterns of the dance with ease and confidence.

There is a more obvious way, her practical mind whispered as they danced. Invite him to the gardens yourself. Seduce him away from the crowd and strike when he least expects it.

The thought shattered the fragile illusion of perfection, bringing reality crashing back with brutal force.

This wasn’t a romantic interlude; it was reconnaissance.

She was dancing with her target, feeling his body move in perfect synchronization with hers, all while planning the most efficient way to slide a blade between his ribs.

She looked up at him, expecting to find those penetrating eyes focused on her face, perhaps trying to read her thoughts. Instead, his gaze was fixed on something over her shoulder, his expression suddenly sharp and predatory.

Without warning, he halted so abruptly that she nearly stumbled. His hand dropped hers as if her touch had burned him, and without a word of explanation or apology, he simply walked away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the dance floor.

Heat flooded Leila’s cheeks as the full humiliation of the moment crashed over her.

Other couples flowed around her in the graceful patterns of the minuet, their steps precise and serene—as if she weren’t standing in their midst like a misplaced chess piece.

She had to step aside quickly to avoid being jostled by a particularly vigorous pair.

“Lady Leila, would you allow me to finish the dance with you?” Lord Payne—ever the perfect host—appeared at her elbow, concern etched on his face, offering a gallant gesture that only heightened her embarrassment.

The kindly host was trying to save her from social disaster, and if she were a diplomat’s poised wife, she would have accepted.

However, her prey had just rushed out of the room. Why? Had Norfolk bitten the bait? Was that why Gideon had run like the devil’s dogs were on his tail?

“Thank you, my lord, but I must offer my apologies,” she said, forcing a bright smile that felt like broken glass on her lips. “I fear I am not quite myself this evening.”

She hurried toward the edge of the dance floor, her eyes frantically scanning the assembled guests. Norfolk was nowhere to be seen among the dancers or the seated observers along the walls.

Siktir! she cursed under her breath.

Gathering her skirts, she rushed toward the gardens, cursing the puffy gown that impeded her movements with each step.

The night air was cool against her flushed skin as she navigated the darkened garden paths. Her slippers were silent on the gravel as she approached the gazebo, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain it could be heard across the grounds.

Was she too late?

She hid behind the bushes, trying to conceal herself as she strained to make out any shadows inside the gazebo.

She crept closer, moving slower and slower until she froze completely.

There was a dark silhouette of a man standing inside the gazebo, motionless, looming over something large lying on the ground.

Her eyes couldn’t discern exactly what she was seeing.

But her mind knew. It was Wolverstone.

She was too late.

He had killed Norfolk. Because of her.

At that moment, as if sensing her presence, he turned his head and looked directly at her. Even in the darkness, she could see his eyes reflecting the moonlight like a predator’s.

Leila picked up her skirts and dashed away from the garden as fast as her legs could carry her, and her skirts would allow.

Where am I running?

She couldn’t return to the musicale, alert everyone, and risk drawing too much attention to herself. She needed to stay calm. Think rationally.

So she turned and ran toward the garden gate that led to the street, desperate to reach her carriage before he could catch up to her.

But before she could find safety, she heard his footsteps pounding behind her, gaining ground with every stride. Then, a strong hand snatched her by the waist, turning her around and pressing her legs against the garden fence.

Leila let out a screech, but he covered her mouth with his palm.

“You didn’t see a thing,” he said, his voice chillingly calm.

“You’re right,” she mumbled against his palm, nodding frantically. “I didn’t see a thing.”

He removed his hand, his eyes filled with pain. “I can’t risk you telling anyone.”

“I won’t,” she hurried to assure him, fumbling quietly with the back of her bodice, searching for her trusted dagger. “Who would believe me, even if I did?”

“Your husband has powerful allies.”

If she weren’t terrified to her core, she would have laughed. Instead, she replied, “You’re mistaken. No one would believe a woman over a powerful duke.”

At that moment, she freed the dagger and swung it at him, but he easily caught her wrist and pried the weapon from her fingers.

She opened her mouth to scream. “He-e-el—”

His hand clamped down over her mouth, silencing her cry. In desperation, she licked his palm, hoping the unexpected sensation would make him recoil.

Instead, he whirled her around, pressing her back against his chest, his palm firmly covering her mouth once more. With his free hand, he began to untie his cravat.

Panic gave her strength. She tried to break free from his grip, lifting her foot and stomping down hard on his instep. She felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction when he grunted in pain, his hold loosening just enough for her to escape.

But before she could run more than a few steps, she tripped over her cursed skirts and went sprawling onto the gravel path.

That would never have happened if she had been wearing her salvar!

Gideon was on her in an instant, tying his cravat over her mouth as a gag. The fabric smelled like him—that same masculine scent that had made her dizzy during their dance.

Damn rag.

Without hesitation, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, striding toward the street where his carriage waited. She could feel his muscles moving beneath his jacket as he walked, hear his steady breathing despite the exertion.

He unceremoniously deposited her into the carriage, slid onto a seat beside her, and shut the door behind them.

“Take us home,” he shouted to his carriage driver.