Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“Is it just me,” Marianne murmured over her teacup a week later, “or are you watching that door like it owes you money?”
Elizabeth didn’t flinch. She kept her posture straight, eyes still trained on the grand double doors.
“I just want to be prepared for anything.”
Her sister arched an elegant brow. “Really? Are you expecting someone in particular? Or perhaps just hoping?”
Elizabeth turned toward the fire briefly, letting its warmth mask her discomfort. “No one. Just being alert and polite.”
“Lizzie,” Marianne said gently, nudging her elbow. “You go stiff when you lie. Always have.”
Before Elizabeth could craft a witty retort, the butler’s voice rang out across the music and chatter, sharp and official.
“His Grace, the Duke of Redmoor. The Earl of Whitton.”
The double doors swept open.
And there he was.
Alasdair entered like a storm that didn’t know how to whisper. His stride was deliberate, shoulders squared in a way that made other men straighten subconsciously.
Dressed all in black, he looked like sin dipped in ink—broad-shouldered, golden-haired, and exuding the kind of magnetic danger that set hearts fluttering and tongues wagging.
The light from the chandelier caught the subtle gleam of his black waistcoat. The rich darkness of his attire only sharpened the wild glint in his forest-green eyes—eyes Elizabeth knew far too well.
Next to him, Lord Whitton wore a dazzling smile and a pale blue coat that seemed deliberately chosen to contrast his friend. He looked like a charming rake ready to cause mischief or intercept it.
Elizabeth turned her head just slightly, pretending to be deeply interested in the floral arrangement beside her.
“Oh,” Marianne let out a soft laugh. “Now I know why you’ve been staring at that door like a debutante with a secret. That’s a lot of tension on those delicate shoulders. Try shrugging it off.”
“There’s no tension,” Elizabeth said through her smile. “I’m perfectly composed.”
Marianne hummed as if to say if you say so and took another sip of tea. But her voice turned low and serious.
“You two can’t keep this up forever. If the air crackles every time he walks into a room, people will notice. And gossip.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The fire in her cheeks said enough.
But what unsettled her most wasn’t his presence. It was his restraint.
Alasdair didn’t come straight to her, as he might have in another room, another week, another stolen moment.
No teasing glance. No smirk. No quiet words just for her ears.
Tonight, he stayed on the opposite side of the ballroom, speaking to lords and ladies who once scoffed at his barbarian ways and now laughed at his every remark.
He looked perfectly civilized.
And she hated it.
The quiet ache in her chest only grew as she watched him exchange pleasantries with Lord Kittridge, then Lady Hartley. She caught the warmth in his voice when he greeted Lord Farnleigh. Somehow, it all felt wrong.
He was being good. Too good.
And it made her want to scream.
Still, she smiled graciously, remained poised and attentive, especially when surrounded by the small group of gentlemen drawn into her orbit. Marianne remained beside her, acting as both chaperone and subtle buffer. Wilhelmina, for once, hadn’t wandered too far either.
“So that’s the story of my hunting dog, Egbert,” Lord Pomfrey concluded with an exaggerated flourish.
Elizabeth laughed softly, her gloved fingers fluttering to her cheek. “I should very much like to meet Egbert someday. He sounds like quite the gentleman.”
“It’s a family trait, Lady Elizabeth,” Pomfrey said with a wink.
“Indeed,” Marianne added with a smooth smile. “You’ll find the love of animals runs strong in our bloodline.”
“Ah, then we have something in common!” Lord Avery piped in eagerly. “I’ve just taken in three kittens. And of course, I have my horses.” He paused. “If you’re interested, Lady Elizabeth, you’d be most welcome to visit.”
“Kittens?” Elizabeth’s face lit up. “They are simply darling. And far less temperamental than some people.”
That earned her a polite chuckle from the group. She didn’t even have to lie. She did love kittens. She just wasn’t sure she could love any of these men.
Still, she knew how to play the part.
The men were circling now—Avery, Pomfrey, and even a viscount whose name she couldn’t quite remember. It wasn’t a surprise. She’d learned how to draw their attention, how to feign the right kind of interest. With a smile here, a soft laugh there, a faint blush when appropriate.
It was all part of the game.
“I would be delighted to have you all over,” the viscount said. “My estate backs onto a working farm. You’d enjoy it, perhaps even see our staff milk the cows.”
His gaze dipped to her décolletage.
The laugh that rose in Elizabeth’s throat died before it reached her lips. She pressed her gloved hand to her chest to hide what he was looking at and to steady herself.
She smiled, a little too sweetly. “How generous, my lord,” she said lightly. “Though I dare say the cows might not be as thrilled.”
Marianne stifled a snort beside her.
Elizabeth kept her gaze away from Alasdair’s direction. But she could feel him. Somewhere across the room, watching.
He always did.
And yet, tonight, he was letting her play the game alone.
And for some reason, that hurt more than it should.
Alasdair watched her with quiet intensity.
His student—his Elizabeth—was doing remarkably well. She stood at the center of the lords’ attention like a polished gem, gleaming under candlelight.
Her posture was perfect, her expression composed, her laughter lilting and timed just right. Every tilt of her head, every flutter of her lashes struck the perfect balance between warmth and mystery.
It was all too effective.
He should have been proud. This was, after all, what he had helped her become: poised, sharp, strategically charming. But pride warred with something far darker, far more dangerous.
Because she never looked at him that way.
With him, she was fire and fury. She challenged him, pushed back with every lesson, resisted his words—until that night in his house, when she’d kissed him back with a heat that had nearly broken him.
And then she had pulled away. Just like that.
No other woman had done that.
Now, she was glowing, all pink-cheeked, radiant. Men watched her with naked admiration, some with barely veiled hunger.
That one’s eyes are too low. That one’s hand is too close to her waist.
Her sisters should have noticed by now and hauled her away.
But had she noticed?
Was she playing them, or was she enjoying it?
That’s the game, he reminded himself bitterly.
That was the reason she was here: to secure a husband, to be chosen and courted, to make a match. And tonight, she was finally thriving. The shyness was gone. She was believable, compelling.
She was winning.
And yet…
None of them have seen yer real smile. None of them know the sound of yer moans, he thought, jaw clenching.
His hand moved before he could think better of it. He scribbled the note quickly and crossed the room.
The lords were too entranced by her beauty to notice the slip of paper pass into her gloved hand. Her sisters, too focused on protecting her from fools, didn’t spot the real danger.
The wolf had already gotten in.
He watched from across the room. There it was, her slight flinch. The tightening of her shoulders. The graceful turn of her head to shield the motion of her fingers unfolding the note.
She read it. Her jaw tensed. But she didn’t tear the paper. She didn’t hide it either.
Someone kept talking—Lord Pomfrey, probably—and she laughed on cue.
Library. In ten minutes.
Alasdair retreated just far enough to give her the illusion of choice. He wouldn’t chase her across the ballroom. Not tonight. She had to come to him.
She didn’t move for nearly a minute. Then her shoulders rose and fell once, twice.
“Excuse me,” she said sweetly, stepping away from the circle of eager lords.
A ripple of disappointment passed through them, but none dared stop her. Her sister, the Duchess of Oakmere, leaned in with a quiet word. Elizabeth blushed furiously. But she nodded.
And then she walked through the crowd, away from the light and the warmth and the safety of her future.
Toward him.
Alasdair reached the library before her. His steps were swift, nearly silent.
The air inside was cool, the fire in the hearth little more than a lazy flicker. Shadows curled along the walls, and the room was cloaked in an unnatural stillness, as though even the furniture knew something was about to happen.
Then the door creaked.
She slipped inside like a breath of wind with her curls pinned high, her gown catching the firelight with every step. Her eyes found him immediately.
And they burned.
“Now is not the time for a lesson, Your Grace,” she hissed, voice tight with restraint.
“You saw me. You saw I’m doing well. I’m so close to sealing a match with one of them.
” Her tone sharpened. “Meanwhile, you are busy charming the lords who once sneered at you. Congratulations. You’re becoming quite the polished duke. ”
Her words were sharp, but her cheeks were flushed, and her chest was rising and falling just a little too fast.
He didn’t move. Just watched her from the shadows with a hunger he was no longer bothering to mask.
“Then why did ye come, lass?” Alasdair asked softly, though his voice carried the weight of something wound tight inside him.
She was slipping through his fingers, trying to walk away from whatever had been building between them, this fire that he couldn’t seem to control.
Elizabeth hesitated. “I—I don’t know. Perhaps I’m too polite. Or too obedient,” she muttered with a half-hearted shrug.
Her foot shifted slightly, turning away.
He nearly growled. She was going to leave. She’d come to meet him, but she was going to walk away now, as if none of this mattered. As if he didn’t matter.