Chapter 21
The ballroom at Thornhill had not been used in four years. Gordon had preferred his study. The doors had stayed shut. Dust had settled on the chandeliers, and the parquet floor had become dull.
It did not look dull now.
Caroline had worked a miracle. Candles everywhere, hundreds of them, in iron sconces, crystal holders, and tall candelabras that threw warm light across the room.
White roses climbed the columns. Gold ribbon wound through the greenery.
The musicians were tuning their instruments in the gallery.
The windows were open, and the evening air drifted through, cool and clean.
Valeria stood at the top of the staircase in her blue dress. The one Caroline had commissioned from Madame Beaumont. Gold thread along the neckline. Off the shoulder. The white mask was in her hand. She had not put it on yet.
Below her, the ballroom was filling. Masks everywhere.
Lord Barton had come as something vaguely Venetian.
Sir Humphrey’s mask appeared to be a very grumpy cat.
Mr. Ashworth’s mask had a quill attached to it, which was both impractical and entirely in character.
The young Viscount, whose name she still could not remember, had painted his mask the wrong color and was trying to fix it with a napkin.
Caroline stood at the bottom of the stairs, directing traffic. She was not wearing a mask because no mask could accommodate both her face and her opinions, and her opinions took priority. Richard stood behind her with a patient expression that had become a permanent fixture.
John hung by the punch bowl. His mask was a plain black half-face, simple and elegant, pushed up onto his forehead so he could drink. He raised his glass when he saw Valeria.
She scanned the room. Every face. Every mask. Every shape in the candlelight.
Edward was not there.
She checked the windows, the doorways, and the corridors she could see from the stairs. She was looking for a man who was taller than everyone else in the room and who stood near exits and did not wear waistcoats, and whose presence made other men take a step backward.
He was not in the ballroom. He was not in the corridors. He was nowhere.
Sir Marcus appeared at her elbow. He was wearing a silver mask that made him look like an extremely determined fish. He asked if she would do him the honor of the first dance. His voice was hopeful. His eyes were not. He already knew the answer.
“I am waiting for someone, Sir Marcus.”
“The Duke of Welford, I presume.”
“You presume correctly.”
He bowed.
He was gracious about it. She would give him that. He had been gracious about everything since the wedding announcement. He had stayed for the remaining games. He had been polite at meals. He had not once mentioned his stables, which was for him an act of considerable restraint.
“He is a fortunate man,” he said, then walked away.
Valeria watched him go and felt a small pang of guilt that she dismissed immediately, because guilt was a luxury she could not afford tonight.
Her fingers tightened on her mask. She should put it on. That was the point of a masquerade—the anonymity, the freedom to be someone else for an evening. But she did not want to be someone else.
She had spent three years being someone else. Gordon’s wife. Gordon’s possession. The woman who did not laugh, did not eat, and did not open the windows.
She was done being someone else. Tonight, she would be Valeria. If Edward came, he would see Valeria. If he did not, she would dance with Sir Marcus and drink champagne and be Valeria anyway.
The music swelled. Couples moved across the floor.
A woman in red silk danced with a man whose mask had a feather that kept getting into her eyes.
Lord Barton had found the wine and was telling anyone who would listen about a foxhunt that had ended with the fox stealing his hat.
Sir Humphrey was dancing with Mrs. Grady, who was laughing so hard she had to stop twice to catch her breath.
Valeria watched all of it from the edge of the room. She felt oddly separate, as though she were watching everything through glass.
She had planned this evening. Every candle, every rose, every piece of music. She had done it for Edward, though she would not have admitted that to anyone except Mary. And Mary already knew.
She had wanted him to walk in and see the ballroom. See what she had made of the house he was about to share with her. She had wanted him to look at the candles, the roses, the musicians, and think that this was what she was capable of. This was what life with her would be.
Her fingers tightened on her mask. Four days. He sent word he was coming.
The music began. A waltz. The sound filled the ballroom, and people began to pair up. The room came alive with color and motion, and Valeria stood at the top of the stairs in her blue dress and watched it happen without her.
Then the front doors opened.
Edward stepped through them the way he stepped through every door—without hurry or ceremony.
Dark coat. No waistcoat. Hair pushed back.
He had ridden hard. She could see it in the dust on his boots and the way his eyes swept across the room, checking exits, counting heads.
He wore no mask, but was carrying a plain black one, crumpled in his left hand as though he had forgotten it was there.
He looked tired. That was the first thing she noticed, before the relief and the anger and the heat. Tired in a way that was not physical. The tiredness of a man who had been carrying something heavy and had not been able to set it down.
But the moment his eyes found hers across the ballroom, the corner of his mouth moved. Not a smile, but the beginning of one. A movement that said I am here, I found you, and I am sorry it took so long.
She forgot about the four days. She forgot about the counting, the lack of sleep, and the letter in her drawer. She forgot about Gordon, the corridor, the locked windows, and every dark thing that had happened in this house.
For three seconds, she forgot everything except the man standing in the doorway, looking at her as though she were the first thing he had seen in four days that made sense.
She came down the stairs. Held the banister. Did not rush. Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her wrists. Still, she kept her face steady because she had spent three years learning how to do that.
The blue dress rippled around her legs like water. The gold thread caught the candlelight with every step. She was aware of people watching her. Heads turned. Conversations paused.
She did not care about any of them. She only cared about the man at the bottom of the stairs, who was watching her come down with an expression he was not bothering to hide.
He met her at the bottom.
He was taller than she remembered. Or she was shorter.
Four days could do that. Four days of missing someone could shrink you, could make the spaces inside you larger and the rest of you less. She had to tilt her head back to look at him properly. The candlelight made his jaw sharp, his eyes dark, and the scar on his neck silver.
“You’re late,” she said flatly.
“I’m here.”
“Four days, Edward.”
“And I am here now. The ball has barely started.”
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to grab his coat and pull him down and kiss him. But she did neither.
Two men stood behind him in the doorway, both masked. One was broad and fair-haired with restless energy. The other was taller, dark-haired, lean, very still, holding a glass he had procured in ten seconds. He was watching them with flat, careful eyes.
The fair-haired one stepped forward. “Your Grace. Peter. At your service. Might I say the ballroom is splendid.”
“Thank you,” Valeria replied. “That would be my sister’s doing.”
The dark-haired man inclined his head. “George Turner. An honor, Your Grace.”
His voice was smooth and warm, and it reminded her of nothing good. She could not say why. The words were polite. The bow was correct. Everything about the man was correct in the way that a painting of a person was correct without being alive.
“Welcome to Thornhill,” she said. “I hope you enjoy the evening.”
George smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “I intend to.”
A man invited Valeria to dance.
She saw it happen in slow motion. His mouth opened. The words began to form. And then his eyes moved, just slightly, to Edward’s right hand, which was wrapped around a crystal glass that was making a sound a glass should not make—a high, thin creak.
The man’s mouth closed. Opened again. “That is to say, you should dance with the Duke, of course. Your Duke. Who is standing right here. With that glass in his hand.”
Edward released the glass. It did not shatter.
The man took a step back. Then another. He had the good sense to look relieved.
“Shall we?” Edward asked, holding out his hand.
His hand. Scarred across the knuckles. Open. Waiting. Valeria had seen those hands make a man back away without throwing a single blow. And now they were open. Proffered. Patient.
The contradiction of him in a single gesture.
She took it. His fingers closed around hers. Warm. Rough. Scarred. Then he pulled her onto the dance floor.
His hand found the small of her back, and she found herself close to him for the first time in four days. The relief of it was so sharp it was painful.
They moved together. He was a better dancer than she had expected. Not elegant, but steady. He led the way he did everything: with certainty.
She had expected him to dance the way he moved — sharp, deliberate, always ready.
. Instead, he danced the way he had carried her through the storm.
Steady and certain and surprisingly gentle.
His hand on her back was firm without being forceful.
He guided her through the turns with a confidence that did not need to be loud.