Chapter 4 #2
Daylight suited him no better than shadow. It made him more precise. He was speaking to no one at that moment. He was looking at her with a composure that hid intent.
The pavilion’s musicians struck a chord. The hum of chatter rose, fell, gathered itself into the rhythm of a country dance. Still, the Duke did not tear his gaze away.
Her heart did a graceless somersault. Heat rose beneath her stays before she could stop it. The way he was watching her felt far too intimate for daylight, and her whole body prickled with an untrained, startled awareness.
“Do not look,” Arabella whispered. “He is looking. Do not look.”
“I am not looking,” Gwen said in the tone of a woman who is certainly looking.
Eleanor’s lips curled into a prudent line. “If he approaches, we will be stone. If he speaks, we will be deaf.”
“He is coming,” Arabella squeaked.
Gwen wished very much for a breeze. Her gloves stuck to her fingers. The sun found the nape of her neck and warmed it to a fragile heat.
She had not expected to see the Duke again so soon. She had hoped for a day to gather herself, to arrange bravery in layers like petticoats. Instead, fate had thrust her upon the lawn in a gown that suddenly felt either too plain or too bold. She could not decide which.
Do not be foolish, Gwendoline. Smile and say nothing. Remember that you bartered with him. Remember why.
The Duke began to walk toward them with the untroubled stride of a man whom no one dared to stop. The crowd parted for him automatically. The musicians caught the light and turned it into sound.
Gwen placed her hand on her waist, where her card was tucked. She herself had written the same name on it four times. She had invented it for courage. Sir Thomas Nobody.
She felt like a child now. The Duke would see it like ink on a white shirt.
“Breathe,” Eleanor murmured.
Gwen breathed. It did little good.
Victor crossed the lawn as if he were approaching an ordinary problem. It was not ordinary. He had not planned to speak to her in public again before he held both her name and her first promise in his hand.
Yet here she stood, with two little sentries at her sides, one pink and bright, one grey and steady. She looked as if sleep had only nodded to her door in passing.
He found he disliked the idea of anyone other than himself keeping her awake.
He stopped before them and bowed. “Ladies.”
The pink one gathered her wits with admirable speed. “Your Grace.”
The grey one regarded him as if he were a moral question on an exam paper. “Your Grace.”
He looked at Gwen last. She met him with a composure she had stitched quickly and well. “Your Grace.”
“I need a partner for the next dance,” he stated. “Lady Gwendoline will oblige me.”
The pink one sucked in a breath. The grey one made no sound at all.
Gwen smiled the politest of smiles. “I had intended to sit this one out.”
“Then you will have more vigor for the figures,” he returned. “Your card, if you please.”
She hesitated. It was a lovely hesitation, not coy, not unwilling, simply a moment in which a clever woman was debating whether to resist. Then she handed the card over.
He glanced down at it. The small, neat hand had written a single name: Sir Thomas Nobody.
He took the pencil that hung from the ribbon, his hand briefly brushing hers as he neatly erased Sir Thomas from existence.
The faint blur of graphite remained like a ghost. In its place, he wrote Greystone.
The slight tremors in her delicate fingers were not lost on him, and he fought the urge to let them go as his eyes met hers.
“Sir Thomas will forgive me,” he said smoothly.
Color rose in her cheeks. “He will have to.”
They took their places. The set formed around them like a picture. The Duchess waved her approval from her pavilion and turned at once to scold a marquess for stepping on her lawn. The music began.
Victor felt the old ease return to his body. Dance required balance and attention, both of which he preferred to supply. He guided without appearing to do so.
Gwen followed without ceding a single inch of herself. When they came together, he felt the whisper of silk and the sturdier promise beneath it.
“You chose a false name,” he said when the figure allowed talk.
“And you chose to remove it,” she returned. “It seems we are both fond of little fictions.”
“Mine was a correction,” he pointed out. “Yours was a disguise.”
Her mouth curved. “Perhaps I have grown used to them.”
“What were your little friends discussing when I approached?” he asked, sliding the question through a turn.
“My little friends,” she repeated, and the curve became a smirk. “How very vain you are, assuming we were speaking about you.”
“I did not assume,” he corrected. “I knew.”
“How could you possibly know a thing you did not hear?”
“Because I composed the subject beforehand,” he said calmly. “One must seed a field in order to harvest it.”
She missed a step. Only a fraction. Her recovery was swift. “You composed gossip?”
“I placed two truths where four people were likely to repeat them,” he explained. “The mathematics of reputation is not difficult. Your friends heard what I wished them to hear. There is a beast inside me, but he is very well trained.”
Gwen looked at him then, properly. Not as a nuisance, not as an enemy, but as if she had been handed a new map to a country she had thought she knew.
The look moved through him in a clean line from his chest to his belly. Hunger woke, not coarse, not manageable by simple count.
“You tell stories,” she said.
“As do you,” he reminded her. “Consider this a lesson in partnership, and that you do not hold the only quill.”
She lifted her chin. “And what story did you hope they would repeat after this dance?”
“That I can lead without forcing.” His hand found hers for the turn. “That you are very much in demand. That the Duchess prefers you on her lawn. That you will leave at the proper hour.”
“At what hour?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Victor bent his head as the final figure brought them close. The scent of her skin met the bright air and made something growl and then settle inside him.
“Midnight,” he said, very softly. “You will come to my house.”
The music ended with a polite flourish. He bowed. She curtsied. And then he dropped a small velvet pouch of coins into her hidden pocket.
The crowd emptied slowly from the set around them like water finding its level. He stepped back with the detachment that never failed him.
Her gaze followed him. He felt it between his shoulder blades like a hand. He did not turn. He did not need to. The hour had been set.
He walked to the edge of the lawn, where the yews offered shade. He did not look at the sun to measure how far it stood from the west. He knew the answer already.