Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Before she could scream, two— no, four—hands grabbed at her, but only to stop her from crashing to the ground. Another lord darted forward to grab Lady Porter.
Startled, Ariadne felt the room spin around her before it righted, and she swallowed over the furiously beating heart in her throat.
“Are you all right, my lady?” the dark-haired man asked, his gem-green eyes dark with concern.
“I—” she pressed a hand to her breast, “I think so. What— what happened?”
As she looked around, one of the men was leading Lady Porter away from the room, and soon, she vanished. The lord’s lips ticked down, “A bad decision, my lady, and I am sorry you got in the middle of it.”
Turning, Ariadne asked, “Marigold, are you all right?”
“Yes,” her sister replied while wringing her hands. “But you look as white as a ghost.”
“And that was my fault,” the gentleman replied, then bowed. “Leander Greymont, at your service, my lady.”
Greymont. Greymont—why do I know that name? Oh la, that is the name of the duke’s house I am in.
She curtsied, “Pleased to meet you, my lord. I am Ariadne Hargarve. Daughter of the late Viscount of Fairbrook.”
“I am sorry for your loss, my lady,” Leander replied. “I feel as if the least I can do to make up for this mishap is to ask you to dance. Will you do me the honor?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Marigold nodding furiously, and Ariadne agreed, “I would like that, thank you.”
Extending his arm, he said, “Please.”
The first strains of the waltz sounded in the air, and he swept her off to the dance floor, where she instantly curtsied, and he bowed. His hand settled at her waist; she felt her skin wash over with warmth at how he was looking at her.
He danced well, directing her around the floor with ease, and Ariadne wondered if he loved dancing or if he was a pugilist with how light he was on his feet. He certainly did not move like a man who only participated in leisure pursuits.
“Do I assume you are related to Duke Holloway?” she asked, knowing she was breaking rule two.
“Alas, yes,” he spun them. “I am the younger brother; he is the heir, and I am the spare.”
She frowned. “I’m…sorry?”
He laughed, “Why? God knows, I could never be my brother. He is so buttoned up, his cravat is a noose. The man has had a set menu for his meals since he was sixteen and has not strayed from it for nearly twenty years. I am so happy that I can be free to live my life as I see fit without the constraints of work and debating with other stodgy lords at Westminster.”
Ariadne laughed, “I have a feeling that you would be a great debater.”
“The teachers at Eton and Oxford would disagree with you,” he flashed white teeth.
“Is His Grace attending tonight?” she asked.
“Oh god no,” Leander shook his head. “Balls, parties, soirees, even a ten-minute drive through Hyde Park is unnecessary and unproductive for him. If he dares to break his routine, I am sure he will implode.”
Her brows lifted. “He sounds like a dedicated man.”
“He is a bore,” Leander snorted as the crescendo increased. He took them through a series of curtailed spins before the last note trembled in the air. After bowing, he said, “I would appreciate it if you forgot that incident with Lady Porter.”
“Of course,” Ariadne nodded, “She was incapacitated.”
“That she was,” he replied and extended his arm again. He led her off to the seating area and kissed her hand. “Please enjoy the rest of the night, my lady.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
As he went off, she turned to her expectant mother, who looked ready to burst at the seams. Before she spoke to her mother, she spotted Celestine across the room, surrounded by an almost impenetrable wall of males.
“Ariadne,” Ophelia dropped her tone to sotto. “Who is he?”
A rake, mother.
“Mr. Greymont,” she replied. “The duke’s brother. I failed to learn his title, but I suppose there is one.”
“Lud!” Her mother’s fan began to beat up a hurricane. “That is wonderful. Do you think he will dance with you again?”
No.
“I hope so, mother,” she replied.
As I suspected, no second dance.
And no one has looked at her twice.
Three hours—wasted.
While her mother was off to the side, keeping an eye on Isolde and lecturing Celestine on her over-the-top flirting, Ariadne did exactly what her mother had warned Marigold from doing, and escaped the ballroom.
It felt like a knife to the heart knowing that no one saw her as worthy, though it all she’d kept a brave face, never letting her smile slip even in the face of subtle—and not so subtle—snubs.
As she sought for a room to hide away, her brave face began to crumble, and tears leaked down her cheeks. Frustrated, she used the back of her hand to dash the tears away.
Stop being a ninny.
Pushing a door in, a looming, cavernous room that seemed to go on forever. Stepping in, she saw what she supposed to be a second story above the first one. Wind whistled through the open windows, and she flinched when the white curtain fluttered ghostly from an open window.
She looked through the panes, and even the luminous full moon; its bright glory seemed to be mocking her.
What’s wrong with me? She thought in despair. Spying the sitting room at the back of the room, she headed to it, only to feel a bit comforted at seeing a low fire flicker in the grate. She found the lone seat by the fire and, pulling her feet up, curled into a comforting ball.
So mired in her thoughts, she did not hear the quiet footsteps. “Are you lost, madam?”
Ariadne startled at the cultured baritone that held a hint of ice and darkness; instantly, her body washed with cold, pricking gooseflesh. Looking up, she only saw a tall, male body halfway cloaked in the gloom.
Another set of eyes, canine this time, glinted bluish-grey in the low light, and she was scared for another reason. This dog was built like a hellhound, not like the tiny balls of tuft her friend Leah had.
His coal-black hair was a rough, wild tousle, and from what she could see of his clothing, his tight breeches fitting his lean, virile figure like a glove while his loose shirt was baggy on his torso.
Her eyes landed on the hound, “Is he going to bite me?”
“No, she is not,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs with your fellow lords and ladies participating in this glorified meat market?”
The utter disdain in his voice mirrored a feeling deep down inside her. He was right. If one looked at this endless array of balls and soirées for what it was and dissected it, it was no better than putting a poor farm girl onto a market stage and asking for the first buyer.
Her stomach trembled at being alone with an unknown man, who sounded colder and shaper than a double-edged dagger. He sounded dangerous.
“I ask you a question,” he said.
A strange sensation prickled down her spine as she wondered if his eyes were devouring her body. There was something almost… primal in his voice, which had her mind racing with unwanted thoughts.
Is he as attractive as his voice?
“Who are you?” she said in a high-pitched voice, which gave her away as being almost overcome with fear.
“Answer my question first,” he demanded.
She swallowed. “Unfortunately, this night had not been fortunate for me. I came here to have a moment alone.”
“You should go,” he said.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Ariadne said.
Why am I feeling like this?
Her breathing deepened as her heart began to race from all the questions running through her mind. Who was this man hiding in the shadows? Had she unknowingly walked into the den of a monster? She tried to hide the deep breath that shook her chest as she lifted her chin in the air.
His hand rested on the dog’s head. “I do not need to. This is my home, and you need to respect the boundaries given to the guests. Rejoin your ball, pet.”
She bristled at the gall of him to call her such a thing. “I am not your dog.”
“Athena does not wallow in self-pity because some popinjay lord does not give her his attention,” he said mockingly.
Flustered and irked, Ariadne stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her dress. “Fine, I’ll go. But first, assure me your… hellhound will not attack me.”
He snorted. “My dog is trained to rush rabbits from their warrens, not little misses from creating their Cheltenham Tragedy.”
Such a bounder!
She inched away from the mysterious man and his still dog and got to the doorway, turning only to try and see the man whom she’d been talking to in the odd case she had been speaking to a phantasm.
Ariadne turned just in time to get her first full glimpse of his face. The clean structure of his broad cheekbones and square jaw was offset by the burn-scarred skin drawn taut and livid across the left side of his face.
Her breath caught in her lungs.
She guessed that he was a dozen years older than her own age of two-and-twenty, but his austerely handsome features defied such banalities as age.
He stepped back into the shadows, face twisting in fury. He ordered, “Go, now.”
Frightened, she scurried off, her heart pounding in her throat, fearing that he would come after her. As she entered the ballroom again, a furtive look over her shoulder proved he was not there.
Who was that man with the scars and the devil?
“Ariadne!” her mother marched up to her, “Where were you?”
“The-the water closet, mother,” she lied. “I got lost on my way back.”
Ophelia hmphed. “Well, come on. Two lords asked me for your hand in the upcoming dances. If you missed them, I’d be very upset.”
“I’m sorry, mother,” she said, swallowing over the lingering strains of fear still singing in her chest.
“I’ll get you a drink of water and then introduce you to Lord Hamish.”
As her mother went off, Ariadne looked over her shoulder again, as if the man were looming over her, his piercing gaze jabbing through her—she shivered.
One thing was for sure: the sight of him was not for the weak.
That young miss surely is an odd one.
With the book he had liberated from the library, Cedric padded to his study with his dog at his side. Entering the room, he rested the book on his massive oak desk before pouring a glass of whiskey.
Athena had padded off to lie near the fire, the light reflected off the dark spots on her pure white coat. The mirror above the bar, illuminated by the wall sconces, showed the thick map of scars that extended from the side of his nose all the way to his left ear, back at him.
Thank god his hair had grown out enough to hide some of the marred skin; it was a reflection he was familiar with, but was one that sent unwitting women, children, even some men into paroxysms of fear at seeing him.
That lady a while ago; just the same.
Returning to his desk, he tried to put some semblance of organization to the tempest of papers over it. As he began to gather his thoughts for his speech at Westminster in a week, his mind invariably strayed to the little miss in the library.
She had a certain beauty to her; there was no denying that. Her wide-set eyes and plush mouth had some charm to them, but he could not overlook her crying because no lord wanted to waltz with her.
That sort of weakness soured his stomach.
Have some sympathy. Ladies have little in the way of prospects if they did not marry well and be able to live the gentle life their father gave them. Remember Helena.
His hand tightened so severely that he almost snapped the pen in half. Forcing his hand to drop the pen. Instantly, he rubbed his temple as a headache began to bloom.
Helena…
Helena was not like that, Miss. Helena reveled in flirting with every man who crossed her path, behind my back and in front of my face.
“This miss is not that…” he struggled to find the word. “…brazen.”
Dropping every pretense of working, he sagged into his seat as his eyes landed on a stack of unopened mail, the tower a teetering stack about to fall over.
Reaching for the topmost one, he opened it and, after reading the content, discarded it when it had the words ‘invitation’, ‘ball’, or ‘lady would like to interest you’.
He opened one of the last three to read.
Cedric,
You recluse bore, I am inviting you to my house for a friendly game of cards and wine. If you do not come, I will ride seventy miles to drag you out.
Respectfully,
Silas.
Cedric thought of his best friend and snorted, “I bet he would drag me out, too.”
This time, he rummaged for his cards and plucked one of the untouched packs, scribbled out his answer, and set it off to be mailed by the morning.
Thinking of the man who had stood by his side as he lay Helena in the ground, the man who came to his home, week after week, to drag him out to see the sun in his mix of grief and anger, Cedric knew he could not deny him.
Chuckling, he turned his mind back to his work, and a flickering thought went back to the little miss in the library.
She’ll be gone by tomorrow.