Chapter 1 #2
Three for Arabella and Eleanor, a steadfast presence in her life in their own special way.
Four for William, her little brother, who was far away at Eton, with his boots too tight and his letters filled with triumphs he pretended were accidents.
Five… Six… Seven…
A breeze rose, stroking the loose tendrils at the nape of her neck past the ribbon of her mask. She breathed in the damp earth, the orange blossom kept too warm beneath glass, and the fresh scent of the fountain’s spray.
The sounds of the ballroom softened to a pulse: violins, the hush of silk, the occasional rise of pleasure at a clever turn or successful flirtation.
Eight… Nine… Ten…
She did not think of her stepfather again. She would not let him occupy her mind. Instead, she thought of the rumor she had sown last Season. It was a ridiculous, breathless thing because gossip could be bent to purpose if one were shameless enough to hold the needle.
Every false assignation had bought her a little time. Every tittering snub had kept unwanted suitors away. And if her price for that freedom was a ruin that could be undone when she chose… well, she would manage the unpicking herself.
Twenty… Thirty…
“Foolish girl,” she murmured to the night, not specifying whether she meant herself for the rumors or her mother for her devotion or the world for its blindness.
Forty… Fifty… Sixty…
She could breathe better now. She could step back into the crowd. She should. If she kept her promise of ten minutes, Howard’s eyes might skip over her when she returned.
She lifted her skirts an inch, practical as any woman moving across cold stone, and turned toward the brighter path.
At sixty-eight, another laugh reached her. It was masculine, amused, the sort of sound that assumed the world would always make way for it. The answer was a softer trill, distinctly feminine, distinctly daring.
Gwen stilled.
Curiosity was a vice she had never pretended to quell; it had delivered her from boredom too many times to count.
Seventy…
She did not move forward.
Seventy-one…
And then she did.
There were fewer lanterns along the gravel path. The Millingtons’ gardener had let the yews thicken into a dark corridor, the perfect place for kisses and intimate conversations.
Gwen’s slippers made the smallest of sounds, like secrets agreeing to be kept.
Eighty… Eighty-one…
A low-pitched man’s voice said, “No one comes this way.”
“We must make haste,” a woman breathed, thrilled but cautious.
Gwen turned the corner and froze.
A gentleman stood with a lady backed against a stone balustrade, his gloved hand cupping her cheek, his head bent, his mouth so near hers that even the night seemed to hold still. He wore no mask, and the face he showed to the darkness was perfectly, incontrovertibly familiar.
Victor Stephens, the Duke of Greystone.
Her pulse stumbled.
The Duke of Greystone was the subject of polished admiration and mystery. He held his cards close to his chest and continually broke the hearts of all the eligible ladies each year he put off the search for a wife.
The lady turned her face away at Gwen’s sharp intake of breath. The purple diamond at her ear twinkled and then fell back into the shadow.
I’d know those purple diamonds anywhere.
It was Lady Bradburn, the widow of the late Marquess of Bradburn. She wore those earrings at her husband’s wake, and the pop of color had been a topic of scandal that the Viscount had vastly disapproved of.
The Duke’s gaze rose, finding Gwen’s as if he had known she would be there all along.
“Well,” he drawled, his voice like fine brandy poured over ice, “good evening to our little voyeur, whoever she may be.”
Gwen’s heart did a little somersault. She had no business reacting to the sharp line of his jaw or the easy confidence he wore like a second skin. Still, something in her chest fluttered, reckless and new.
Oh, my… I should go!
Which was quite true, yet her feet refused to move.
The Duke’s mouth curved, though not kindly.
Lady Bradburn made a soft, embarrassed sound, and Gwendoline watched her skirts disappear into the night.
“Have you enjoyed the performance?” the Duke asked conversationally.
Gwen lowered her fan and met his eyes through lace and darkness. “Immensely,” she replied, sweetness coated in steel. “Though I’m sorry that it had to end on my account.”
The Duke’s smile thinned, sharpening into interest. “How strangely considerate.”
“Hardly,” she returned. “I should hate to be accused of interrupting a… rehearsal.”
“Rehearsal does imply an audience.” His gaze flicked to her fan, the line of her shoulders, then back to her eyes. Calculating. Curious. “I have one, it seems.”
“Only by happy accident.” She tilted her head.
“Is that what you prefer to call it? An accident?” he challenged.
“Sure.” She shrugged, though her stomach flipped.
He laughed. “Let’s be economical. You will tell me whom I have the honor of addressing.”
“And ruin the mystery?” She let her fan tap the underside of her wrist, a small reprimand. “I think not.”
The Duke clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “Mystery is a poor cloak for impertinence.”
“Impertinence is a poor word for curiosity.” Her mouth curved. “Though I will wear either if it pleases Your Grace.”
Something changed in his expression. It wasn’t anger, but not amusement either.
And Gwen, with the cool night on her skin and the wild game of it prickling at the nape of her neck, realized that for the first time in an age, she had stumbled upon a tool she had never expected to wield.
Scandal cuts both ways.
The thought slivered through her like delight.
“Do carry on, Your Grace,” she added. “I’m sure you’ll have no issue finding another… willing partner.”