Chapter 14
“You cannot be serious,” Rose whispered. “This is beyond absurd. We have barely slept since the wedding, and now you expect me to parade through London and go to a ball as if nothing at all has happened?”
“Absurdity is the oxygen of the ton,” Felix said, not bothering to look at her. “They would not know what to do without it.”
He was in full regalia, hair combed to a ruthless shine, shirt so white it seemed to glow even in the half-dark. It was impossible not to feel his presence, and Rose found herself resenting him for how he could own a room without even trying.
“I assure you,” he said, “we will survive the evening. The worst that can happen is public disgrace, followed by social exile, and perhaps a catastrophic duel or two. Nothing to fret over.”
The carriage shuddered to a halt in front of Rutledge House. Rose could already see the flare of lanterns, the gilt-edged invitations clutched in white-gloved hands, the entire population of London’s peerage lined up like toy soldiers waiting to be inspected.
Her stomach twisted.
Felix offered his arm with a mocking bow. “Ready, my duchess?”
She glared at him. “Do not call me that. It feels like mockery.”
“You may as well grow used to it. We are expected.” He paused, gaze softening infinitesimally. “You are expected.”
It was the first moment of honesty between them all evening, and she hated him for giving it to her when she could not return it.
The door opened and then came the crush of sound, scent, and color, a surge that pressed against Rose’s ribs. Felix nodded to the steward, who announced them in a voice that could have cracked glass:
“His Grace the Duke of Carden, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Carden.”
Every head snapped around; the ripple of curiosity almost audible above the orchestra’s preamble. She recognized the faces, the ogling matrons and predatory debutantes, the bored men with their order books and gleaming boots.
Lady Rutledge herself was posted at the top of the staircase; her arm looped through the elbow of a viscount. She watched their ascent with a cat’s smile.
Felix’s grip was gentle but absolute. He led Rose up the stairs, leaning in so he could murmur, “Smile, Rose. It’s far too late to run.”
She did not smile, but her lips curled enough to pass inspection.
“Your Graces,” Lady Rutledge purred as soon as they joined the throng at the top of the stairs. Her gaze flicked to Rose’s bodice, then to Felix’s shoulders. “You are the talk of the week, if not the year.”
“Lady Rutledge,” Felix bowed. “Always a pleasure to provide entertainment. I see you’ve brought reinforcements.”
They pressed on, navigating the layers, fielding introductions, and a sea of faces. Felix took each conversation in stride, his posture at ease, mind calculating with a familiar, if bored, arrogance.
A woman drifted by, letting her silk skirts brush against his leg, and he did not so much as blink.
To Rose, it was infuriating. She wanted to throw something, or to drag him away, or to be the sort of wife who was worth more than a moment’s attention.
Felix led her to the threshold when the music started, the rhythm waltzing and grand.
He offered his arm without a word, and this time, she took it.
Rose was neither a natural dancer nor a practiced flirt, but Felix guided her through the opening steps with a deftness that was almost insulting in its lack of effort.
“You’re a good dancer,” she said, forced to look up at him lest she trip over her own feet.
“Thank you, wife,” he replied. “I’ve always found that dancing is a useful skill.”
She made a sound, halfway between a snort and a sigh. “Is there anything you are not good at?”
“Staying out of trouble,” he said, and dipped her just enough to make the world tilt.
They spun, and for a minute, Rose forgot about the eyes on them, the rumors, the desperate need to prove herself. The warmth of Felix’s hand at her waist was an anchor, and she clung to it even as she resented the dependence.
After a turn, he whispered, “You’re shaking.”
“Am I?” Her voice was steadier than she felt.
He pulled her closer, so their faces nearly touched. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone’s afraid of something. Even me.”
She wanted to believe him, but she saw the lie in his eyes, the steel behind the gentleness.
“You fear nothing.”
“I fear everything. I simply refuse to show it.”
With every pass, she became more aware of the press of his palm, the subtle tightening of his grip, the possibility of closeness that hovered just beyond propriety.
The waltz ended, and applause followed, a bright clatter that made Rose feel suddenly naked. Felix bowed to her, the motion both mocking and sincere.
“Was that so awful?” he asked, leading her off the floor.
She had no answer, but it had been the exact opposite of awful, and she felt a strange sense of loss when it was over.
They lingered by the punch bowl, neither of them reaching for a glass. Rose was aware, in a new and terrible way, of how easy it would be to touch him. To ask again for more than what he could give.
She stared at the pale blue vein running along the back of his hand. “Are you happy?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He looked at her, surprise flickering across his features. “Do you want me to be?”
“I want you to be honest.”
He considered this, weighing it as if it were a bet at the track. “Honesty is a dangerous game, Rose.”
“So is marriage.”
“Then perhaps we’ll make decent partners after all.”
Across the ballroom, Rutledge’s voice carried, “Such a shame the duke married so young, don’t you think? There were wagers about how long he would last before scandal caught him.”
The ladies surrounding Rutledge all turned to look at Rose, their eyes full of hungry delight. But Rose did not flinch. She straightened her back and fixed her gaze on the woman who had made an art of breaking hearts.
Felix caught her expression and squeezed her hand, just once, so fast no one else could see. “You’re winning, you know,” he whispered. “They can’t decide whether to love you or fear you.”
“I would prefer the latter,” she said.
He laughed. “That can be arranged.”
As the night wore on, they danced twice more, each time smoother and bolder, the distance between them closing by imperceptible degrees. But something stubborn remained, an invisible wall neither dared scale.
The final waltz began, and Felix bowed again, eyes softer than she had ever seen them. “May I?”
She hesitated, then took his hand. They danced, and this time, it was not about the crowd, or the rules, or the war of reputations. It was simply about the two of them.
When the music faded, Felix did not let go. They stood there, the world spinning around them, and Rose realized she was no longer afraid of falling. Only of never letting herself want this.
“Rose,” he said, voice so low only she could hear it. “If you ever need to run, I’ll be right behind you.”
She looked at him, really looked, and saw the man underneath the armor. He was as scared as she was, and that—more than anything—made her want to stay. But she said nothing. The wall remained, solid and true.
The crowd applauded, and the night resumed its glittering pace.
But Rose knew that something had shifted between them.
And it would not be undone.
“That was a dazzling set,” purred a new voice, slicing through the hum of the drawing room like a silk ribbon drawn taut. “You nearly had Lady Rutledge in fits with that final dip, Duchess.”
Rose looked up, mid-sip, to see a woman of about thirty approaching on the arm of a dignified, balding gentleman—Mrs. Sophia March, famed for her wit and, less publicly, for surviving a scandalous brush with ruin some years back.
“Mrs. March,” Felix greeted, bowing just enough to indicate respect and nothing more. “Mr. March, always a pleasure.”
“Your Grace,” March replied, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ve not changed a bit. I confess I had not believed you capable of being tamed, but then I see your duchess and understand. She’s made a proper man of you.”
“Appearances are my one true talent, Sophia. Surely you know that by now.”
March’s husband, looking mildly lost amid the currents of conversation, murmured something about a new whiskey shipment and drifted off, drawing Felix with him. It was as orchestrated as a cotillion. With the men out of earshot, Sophia could steer Rose to a quiet alcove beneath a stuffed peacock.
“I hope you’ll forgive my directness,” Sophia said as soon as the men were safely out of sight. “But I wanted a word alone with you. He’s a good man, you know. Your Felix.
The phrase startled Rose more than anything in the room. “I’m not sure he would agree,” she whispered.
Sophia’s smile faded, replaced by something gentler. “He’s always played the devil, but that’s only to keep the world from prying too deep. The first time I ever met him, he had just rescued me from utter humiliation. I can’t imagine you’ve heard the story.”
Rose, stung by curiosity, shook her head.
“I was eighteen, foolish, so desperate to escape my stepfather that I accepted a proposal from a man thirty years my senior.” Sophia paused, arranging her words with care. “On the eve of the wedding, your husband’s father—yes, the old duke—attempted to, well, spirit me away. He nearly succeeded.”
Rose’s throat went dry.
Sophia continued, her tone matter-of-fact.
“The night before, I was drugged, loaded into a coach, and—” She caught herself, shrugged.
“Felix was waiting at the gatehouse. He had deduced his father’s plan, and instead of letting it play out, he intercepted us.
He took the keys, put me into a guest suite at Carden Hall, and then…
” Sophia’s lips twitched, “…he burned the evidence. Letters, ledgers, and even the notes his father sent to the driver. In the morning, he delivered me, unscathed, to my intended. No one ever knew a thing.”