Chapter Eighteen
The ballroom at Vale House glittered like something from a fairy tale.
Lady Vale had outdone herself for her annual autumn ball—thousands of candles reflected in gilt mirrors, banks of hothouse flowers perfuming the air, and the cream of society swirling across the polished floor in a kaleidoscope of silk and jewels.
Ashley stood at the edge of the dancing, watching couples spin past, and felt something she hadn’t experienced in three years: pure, uncomplicated happiness.
“You’re glowing.” Tiffany appeared at her elbow, resplendent in deep purple that accommodated her growing belly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so content.”
“Am I that obvious?” Ashley couldn’t suppress her smile as she watched Raven across the room, deep in conversation with Wolf and Viscount Vale.
Even from a distance, she could see the subtle changes in him—the way he stood less rigidly, how genuine warmth replaced his usual austere expression when he caught her eye.
“Gloriously obvious. You didn’t even join us at the theatre. I wonder why?” Farah joined them, linking arms with Ashley with a knowing smile. “You both are. Rockwell mentioned he’s never seen his brother-in-law so…relaxed. Whatever has changed between you two, it suits you.”
Heat crept into Ashley’s cheeks as memories of the past few nights flooded her mind—Raven’s hands on her skin, his voice low and commanding, the exquisite surrender of trust. “We’ve reached an understanding.”
“An understanding.” Courtney materialized with champagne for them all, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Because the way your husband looks at you suggests something rather more passionate than mere understanding.”
Ashley accepted the glass, grateful for something to do with her hands. “We’re…happy. Truly happy. I never thought—after everything—that I could feel this way.”
“You deserve it.” Valora swept up in her stunning ice-blue gown, looking every inch the diamond her mother had raised her to be. “After three years of holding your head high despite society’s cruelty, you deserve every moment of happiness.”
The warmth of their support, their genuine joy for her circumstances, made Ashley’s throat tight.
These women—the Sisterhood—had stood by her when everyone else had turned away.
Had welcomed her into their investment group, their friendship, their lives, without ever asking her to explain or defend herself.
“Speaking of happiness,” Claire said, joining their growing circle, “has anyone noticed how Fane has been watching Valora all evening?”
Valora’s expression immediately shuttered. “Lord Marlowe watches everything. It’s in his nature to be observant.”
“He watches you differently,” Tiffany observed with the bluntness of pregnancy. “Like a starving man looking at a feast he’s convinced himself he can’t have.”
“Well, he can’t.” Valora’s voice held an edge Ashley recognized—the pain of wanting something deemed impossible.
“Lord Marlowe is a notorious rake with no interest in respectable attachments. And I am not foolish enough to pine after a man who will never see me as anything more than his sister’s irritating friend. ”
Ashley knew that particular brand of hurt. Hadn’t she spent three months convinced Raven didn’t want her, and that he’d never see past her scandal to the woman beneath?
“Sometimes men surprise us,” she said softly, catching Raven’s eye across the room. He smiled—a private, intimate expression that sent warmth flooding through her—and began making his way toward their group.
“Sometimes they do,” Farah agreed, watching Rockwell laugh at something Wolf said. “But sometimes we have to show them what they’re missing first.”
Raven reached them, offering a slight bow to the assembled ladies before his hand found the small of Ashley’s back—a possessive touch that would have been scandalous mere weeks ago but now felt perfectly natural.
“Ladies.” His greeting was polite, but his attention was focused entirely on Ashley. “I’m afraid I’ve been summoned. Lord Haverford and several other investors wish to discuss a shipping venture. Would you mind terribly if I abandoned you for a short while?”
The old Ashley would have smiled politely and told him to attend to his business. The new Ashley—the one who’d learned she had every right to claim her place in his life—rose on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek, propriety be damned.
“Go make your fortune,” she whispered against his ear. “I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
She felt him shiver at the contact, saw his eyes darken with promise. “Don’t wander too far. I’ll want you in my arms for the last waltz.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He pressed a kiss to her gloved hand—lingering just a moment too long to be merely polite—before reluctantly joining the gentlemen gathering near the card room.
“Good Lord,” Courtney breathed. “The Duke of Blackstone is besotted. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Neither did I,” Ashley admitted, watching him disappear into the crowd. “But I’m not questioning it. I’m simply grateful.”
The conversation turned to lighter topics—Claire’s frustration with her brother’s latest scandal, Tiffany’s complaints about her expanding waistline, Valora’s diplomatic navigation of her mother’s matchmaking attempts.
Ashley let the familiar warmth of friendship wash over her, laughing at Farah’s story about Rockwell’s disastrous attempt at poetry.
The evening air in the ballroom grew warm with so many bodies, and Ashley found herself gravitating toward the terrace doors, seeking a moment’s respite. The night was crisp but not uncomfortably cold, and the garden beyond beckoned with its promise of quiet.
“I’ll just step outside for a breath of air,” she told Tiffany, who nodded in understanding.
The terrace was blessedly empty, and Ashley moved to the stone balustrade, breathing deeply of the autumn air. London’s gardens never smelled quite right to her—too much coal smoke, too little genuine earth—but at least it was cooler than the ballroom.
“Lady Ashley.” The voice came from her right, smooth and cultured. “Or should I say, Your Grace? Forgive me—I’m still adjusting to your elevation in station.”
Ashley’s blood turned to ice. She knew that voice. She’d heard it in her nightmares for three years.
She turned slowly, forcing her expression into polite neutrality. “Lord Carstairs. Good evening.”
He looked exactly as she remembered—handsome in the way of a snake, with dark hair and darker eyes, dressed impeccably in evening black. At thirty-two, he’d aged well, his face showing only the faintest signs of the dissipation rumored to haunt his nights.
“I must congratulate you on your marriage,” Carstairs said, moving closer with the predatory grace of a fox approaching a trapped rabbit. “The Duke of Blackstone. Quite the coup for a ruined woman.”
“If you’ll excuse me—” Ashley started to move past him, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist.
“Now, now. That’s hardly polite. Especially when we have so much to discuss.” His grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm. Inescapable. “Such as why your husband has been making inquiries about a certain scandal from three years ago.”
Every muscle in Ashley’s body went rigid. Raven hadn’t… “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Carstairs smiled, and it was the smile of a man who held all the power.
“Lady Featherington was kind enough to warn me. Apparently, the Duke of Blackstone visited her recently, asking questions about what she witnessed that night. Very persistent questions, according to Georgiana. She quite enjoyed describing his desperation to uncover the truth.”
Lady Featherington. He’d been to see her. He’d not mentioned that at all. Now Carstairs knew Raven had been investigating. This was not good. That base woman had probably warned him, most likely for money or favors or simply the malicious joy of causing chaos.
“I obviously have no control over what my husband does. Raven is protective,” Ashley managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “He doesn’t like seeing his wife’s name bandied about with old gossip. So, I would be careful if I were you.”
“Protective.” Carstairs tested the word as if it tasted amusing. “How touching. But you and I both know this is more than that, don’t we? He’s investigating. Trying to discover who really pulled you into that carriage. Revenge, I suspect, and I don’t wish to tangle with a duke.”
“He’ll find nothing.” Ashley lifted her chin, clinging to what remained of her composure. “It was three years ago. Everyone has moved on.”
“Have they?” He stepped closer, backing her against the balustrade.
Anyone looking from the ballroom would see nothing but two people in polite conversation, his body angled to shield them from casual observation.
“It’s unfortunate that I’m at a delicate stage of negotiations for a wife.
If I were to lose this advantageous arrangement due to gossip from the past, I shall not be happy.
Perhaps I may need to share correspondence I hold from little Ivy. ”
“I’ve told no one.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “Not even Raven. Your secret is safe if Lady Featherstone stays quiet. Why risk my brothers’ and husband’s wrath by revealing your sordid past?”
“I do need an heir, and my coffers are a bit depleted. I hope to rectify that situation very soon with this marriage. Don’t ruin that.”
“I don’t want to. I hardly think of you at all.”
“I know you haven’t told him or else he’d be at my door.
” His thumb stroked across her wrist, a mockery of tenderness.
“Because if your devoted husband discovers the truth—if he learns it was me in that carriage, that I’d tried to elope with Ivy…
Well, a duke has considerable resources for revenge, doesn’t he? Plus, there are your brothers.”