Chapter Twelve
The masquerade was in full swing when they arrived.
If Alyssia was honest, she’d been counting the moments to this ball.
If she had thought Giles was a rogue before the moment in the carriage when she’d teased him back, he had earned the title of outlandish as well.
He would hold conversations through the door while she bathed.
He slipped into her bed at night. He would call her one of three endearing terms and rotate between them.
Wife, his favorite. Princess, his second favorite. And Liss, when she finally had enough and scolded him. When in company, those endearments would reverse.
She was just as bad, as her inner snip loved to point out. After all, she never once stopped him. And lack of action spoke the same volume as actions taken. That rogue of a husband should know that as well. The man’s astuteness could never be at fault.
She peeked at him again. How many times had that been this minute? But how could she not? At first, she merely wished to assure herself that no one would recognize him. However, each time she looked, she noticed something that made her look again.
Like the stubble coating his jawline.
He hadn’t shaved it clean since the day they’d wed.
Astute.
Somewhere, he must have picked up that she quite enjoyed it too, though she couldn’t begin to fathom where.
Sensing her look, his gaze met hers. With unnecessary care, he lifted both arms to adjust her mask. “Afraid I’ll be recognized?”
“Absurd, I know. I hardly recognized you at first.”
“Don’t remind me,” he muttered, his hands falling away. “No one will recognize me since no one is expecting me. Well, perhaps my uncle, but I’m not worried about him. I’m more worried about you.”
“Why? All I invite is gossip. You invite danger.”
“I still don’t like it. Stay close to me all night.”
Lawd, the man looked handsome in all black, a black mask covering half his face. In contrast, she was all white. Glances were certainly being cast their way. “Well, if they do recognize me, the gossips shall be ripe with speculation about this mysterious husband of mine and his true identity.”
“Husband?” he practically purred.
She sent him a suspicious glance. “Are you not?”
“Can’t I fish for more of my favorite word from your lips? If you say it again, I won’t bother you for the rest of the evening.”
Hah! “If I believed that, I’d say it again.”
He chuckled. “Do you wish to dance? Take a stroll? Get some refreshments?”
Alyssia decided against dancing. What could they possibly overhear on the dance floor? And dancing with Giles . . .? Better not tonight.
Tonight they had a mission.
“Let’s take a slow turn about the room toward the refreshments table.”
His mouth curved, that slow, sinful, knowing, smile that set her off balance. “As the lady wishes. We still have a lifetime to dance together.”
She wanted to scold. Or laugh. Or both. But the way he looked at her stole all cleverness from her tongue. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He was simply watching her, eyes intent, patient, as if he could see every word she wasn’t saying.
She poked at his chest. “You should stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m about to entertain you for your night.”
He leaned forward slightly, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. “You already are, Liss.”
Scoundrel.
She rolled her eyes and started forward, Giles’s chuckle following her before he stepped up beside her, snatching up her hand and placing it on his arm.
“Have some mercy, Liss. This is my first ball.”
His first one?
Her gaze met his, and only when she saw the amazement there did she let out a small breath. She’d never truly thought what his life might have been like these past twelve years. “Giles . . .”
His other hand came over to squeeze hers. “Balls and pomp are not what I missed, Liss.”
“Is Crane really that much of a recluse?”
“Oh, he’s the worst sort. He hates leaving his estate, though he should be better now that he has his wife at his side.” He tipped his head to hers. “There are more things than this.”
She supposed that was true.
“And I’m glad my first was with you.”
Instant heat flashed on her face. “Well,” she cleared her throat, “so long as it’s memorable, then.” A ridiculous thing to say.
“All moments are memorable with you.”
“All right, you rogue. At this point, dancing would be less distracting than your tongue.”
He laughed but didn’t say anything else.
They began their slow stroll through the crowd, pausing by each cluster of guests to appear casual, blending in with the other finely dressed pairs pretending not to listen to one another’s conversations.
Alyssia almost laughed. She felt like a gossip columnist hunting for the perfect story.
And she’d never noticed before, but it seemed every second sentence in the room was either gossip or inflated praise of one’s own importance.
“. . . the Countess of Harlington’s gown . . .”
“. . . Lord Pembroke was seen leaving . . .”
“. . . dreadful weather for the fox hunt . . .”
“What an unpleasant pastime,” Alyssia muttered.
Nothing. No mention of his uncle. No mention of her.
The ton’s attention, it seemed, had shifted elsewhere, at least for the night.
Not that she wanted to hear anything about herself.
That would be so much more dreadful than the supposed weather for the fox hunt.
So she allowed herself the luxury of pretending the world had stopped caring about that nightmare.
“Agreed.” Giles’s low voice came.
“Have you spotted your uncle? Do you think he will attend?”
“Not sure, but if the man is all about appearances, he might.”
Alyssia nodded. Her fingers brushed the edge of her mask where Giles had righted it.
She doubted the man would make a move until he discovered his nephew’s whereabouts.
Hopefully, everything should be cleared up soon.
However, it wasn’t just about unseating the current duke, it seemed. It was what to do with him afterward.
They drifted nearer the refreshment table. The music swelled, and laughter pealed from a nearby group of ladies.
“. . . I simply don’t believe she truly married,” one of them said.
Alyssia’s step faltered. They didn’t need to speak her name, she felt the sting of it all the same. Some truths didn’t need naming to be recognized.
Another voice, softer but crueler, followed. “If she did, does her husband know he wed damaged goods? She’d have been better off with the man who ruined her.”
Alyssia froze.
Damaged goods.
Of course. Those were the words they used now.
Words that could stain a woman deeper than any scandal printed in a paper.
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her throat closed around the air she tried to swallow.
The heat of the ballroom turned stifling, and the mask suddenly felt like a shackle against her skin.
She wanted to rip it off and then rip into them.
How dare they speak of things they knew nothing about!
“Rafferty is not a bad match.”
“Apparently not good enough for a duke’s daughter.”
Giles turned instantly, his voice low. “Ignore them, Liss. They mean nothing. None of it means anything.”
She stilled.
He knew.
She hadn’t been certain after his comment at Hyde Park, but there was no mistaking it now. He knew about Rafferty.
Even if he hadn’t, with his hawkish eyes, he’d have noticed every one of her falters no matter how small. “Giles,” she whispered, unsure what to say.
His hand closed around hers again. “Don’t say anything. They, and this matter, are not worth a single one of your breaths.”
No, they weren’t.
“Smile,” Giles murmured.
“I am smiling,” she said tightly.
“Are you indeed? Then perhaps smile at me.”
“I’m gratified that you’d think that would be of any help.” But she did glance over, and her smile did widen. Her heart gave a flutter. Foolish, foolish, hopeless thing. “Very well, I confess, you were right.”
“See? I am the only one you should be looking at.”
She wished he wouldn’t say things like that. Because every time he did, she believed him a little more.
Yet the words those women spoke still stuck like barbs.
Damaged goods.
She forced herself to move again, step by step, spine straight.
If the gossips were going to gossip, and recognize her, they would see nothing but a woman utterly unbothered.
A duchess in truth, whether they liked it or not.
A future force to be reckoned with. She supposed she and Giles had this in common.
They both wished to reclaim parts of themselves.
Bishop couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. He had made her smile. That made him ridiculously happy. So damn ridiculously happy. Satisfaction burst to life when the corners of her mouth lifted, the absurd lightness that came on the heels of her smallest grin.
He shot a glare at the women gossiping.
They didn’t even notice him, but it made him feel a little bit better.
He turned back to Alyssia, pulling her closer to him. “Should we get some devil’s tea? I don’t think I’m going to get through this night without it.”
She arched a brow at him. “I’m assuming you’re referring to the wine.”
“What else? Maybe we should spill a glass or two.”
She laughed. “How violent of you.”
“Only in my mind.” He clenched his fists. “For the moment.”
“No violence tonight,” she said softly. “We’re here to listen, to learn.”
“I don’t need to listen and learn anymore,” Bishop grumbled.
He hadn’t thought this through enough. He’d just wanted to make her happy, but he’d failed to protect her from whispers.
Christ, he’d headed into the viper’s nest half-cocked and dragged her with him.
It didn’t matter that she’d come willingly, he should have had better foresight.
Tomorrow, he was going to march into the House of Lords and end this. He’d claim his title and hers. No one would ever dare pass such tripe about his duchess ever again. “Let’s go home. I’d much rather stare at just you all night.”
She didn’t even pause in her steps. “Be serious.”
“I am. I’m serious about the staring.”
She tried to chide him with her eyes. Failed. “You are impossible.”
He brought her hand up to his mouth and brushed his lips against her knuckles.
“And you are luminous.” A vision of his exact opposite.
She might not know, but it was in their best interest that he focused his attention completely on her.
Diverting his attention to these people only nettled him. He bent closer to whisper. “Wife.”
She groaned and he chuckled. “Flatterer.”
“Obsessed man,” he corrected. “If we’re not going to leave, we should reconsider dancing,” he murmured.
“We can dance later.”
Pleased, Bishop nodded. “I shall hold you to that.” Dancing with Alyssia. He had a new goal for the night.
“Would it be your first dance?” she asked.
“It would,” he admitted.
“That’s rather tragic.” She glanced at him. “Did you sleep in the servants’ quarters as well?”
He shook his head. No, for some reason, Crane had set him up in one of the rooms of the east wing. His own wing, so to speak, since there was never anyone else there but them and the few servants he kept, keeping the estate afloat. “Fortunately not.”
“So he treated you well then?”
“Like a brother,” he said, smiling faintly at the thought. And a man of affairs, butler, errand boy. “Though he made me earn my keep. I mucked more stalls than I could count those first years.”
Alyssia’s eyes widened a touch. “You, mucking stalls? I can hardly picture it.”
“Then picture me doing it with a great deal of charm.”
“Right,” she said drily. “You are irresistible to all creatures, great and small.”
“Correct. Just ask the stable cat.”
She nudged his arm with her shoulder, grinning up at him. “Poor cat.”
Her tone was teasing, but the warmth behind it did things to him. Hardening things. Torturous things. The chatter of the ballroom faded. “Shall we take a detour to the balcony?”
Her lips curved wider. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she paused, then added, “husband.”
“Poor me.”
And then, just beyond her, movement caught his eye.
Bishop froze.
At the far end of the room, beyond the sweep of masks, stood a man in dark green and smug posture.
His uncle.
Even with a mask, there was no mistaking the man.
The blow to his gut was also no less than what he’d felt the first time he’d saw the man.
Only this time, he didn’t have to confront the man.
His fingers itched. Oh, but how he wanted to rip that mask from his face and expose him to the world right here and now.
Not the place, Bishop. Not the way.
“What?” Alyssia asked. “What is it?” She seemed to have followed his gaze because she stiffened as well. “Your uncle is here.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, his tone shifting, cold sliding beneath the warmth. “He is here.”
“We expected as much.”
True, but there was a world of difference between knowing a thing and beholding it in the flesh. One may be imagined away; the other demands a certain reckoning, even if it was with yourself.
The hair on his neck pricked on end.
“Shall we go greet him, then?”
Bishop blinked a few times at her question, his gaze turning to her, noting her soft smile. Then he barked out a laugh. “Meet him? Such boldness, Liss.”
She shrugged. “Ah, well, we are here, are we not?”
God, he loved her.
He expected anger, fury, rage, but none came.
They were all washed away with that simple question.
Bishop was deuced tempted. He had no doubt his uncle would recognize them both.
However, he had to be smart. Marching up to the man would put him on instant guard and even allow him to put a tail on them.
He couldn’t allow that.
His whole body rebelled at the thought of Alyssia coming within arm’s reach of the man.
He had to hand it to his uncle, though. The man had bollocks as hard as rock.
“No, let us not sully our evening in such a fashion.”
She leaned into him. “But should we try to get closer? Eavesdrop?”
“No, Liss. I’m already regretting coming to this ball.”
“Why?” she asked, concern lighting her gaze.
He admitted, “I believed we’d be fine with masks, but I feel even more exposed. Like I stepped into a trap.”
She nodded. “Let us leave then.” She squeezed his arm. “Together.”
Ah, Liss. “Always.”
Who’d have thought the worst was yet to come?