Chapter 2
The laughter of a hundred guests rang around the candlelit dining hall. The place was like a polished haven of silver, crystal, and colorful feast.
“Pass the claret, if you please,” someone murmured.
Hyacinth barely heard. Her focus, despite every attempt to appear unbothered, was locked two tables away. On him.
The Duke of Larcher sat with effortless composure. His head was slightly inclined toward Lady Ashbourne, who was fluttering her fan flirtatiously. But those traitorous green eyes of his were fixed elsewhere. They were fixed on her.
When their gazes met, it was like a tiny spark formed. A spark too small. Like a pull, soft and electric beneath her skin.
Hyacinth forced herself to look down, pretending to be fascinated with her soup. Yet, somehow, her spoon trembled slightly against the porcelain.
She clenched her jaw. “Get it together,” she whispered so quietly that only her napkin could hear.
It’s just a man. A man she had known for years. A man who had spent his entire boyhood teasing her, a man she had sworn to always ignore.
And yet her heart had decided otherwise.
Because something about him tonight was different.
It wasn’t just the way the candlelight kissed the angle of his jaw, or the way his voice sounded so intimate. It was the tension, the way the very air shifted each time he looked at her.
His gaze was too warm, too aware in a way that made her mind race with thoughts that were far less innocent than she cared to admit.
This is absurd.
She stabbed a piece of roasted pheasant and winced when the fork scraped the plate.
“Hyacinth, are you quite well?” came Violet’s gentle voice from across the table.
“Perfectly,” she replied, too fast, too crisp. Her words sounded like cracked glass.
Her mother leaned in, eyebrows knitting together. “You look flushed, darling.”
“Too warm.” Hyacinth cleared her throat quickly. “The candles.”
“The candles?” her mother repeated, puzzled.
“Yes. They are… particularly enthusiastic this evening.”
Her mother blinked, then turned back to her plate.
Hyacinth exhaled slowly. Even she knew she made no sense. Her problem was just that she was unraveling because of a man who had probably winked at five women since the first course.
She stole another glance. And found him watching her.
This time, he didn’t bother to look away. A faint, knowing smile curved his mouth. It was lazy, wicked, deliberate.
Her stomach tightened. Her throat went dry.
She reached for her glass of wine, only to realize it was empty. A servant refilled it silently, and she took a long sip. It didn’t help.
What is wrong with me?
Her gaze dropped to the swirling red liquid in her glass. His voice echoed in her mind.
“You’ve grown bolder since I last saw you.”
Had she? Boldness was supposed to mean control. But the longer this dinner went on, the less control she seemed to have.
When he laughed at something another guest said, the sound touched her skin before it reached her ears.
She blinked hard, pressing her napkin to her lips.
Enough.
She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and forced her attention back to her plate.
“Are you not eating?” her mother’s voice rose again.
“I am. I am devouring my dinner,” she replied primly, cutting into her pheasant again.
A chuckle reached her from down the table. It was unmistakably his. She didn’t have to look to know that it was meant for her.
By the time the last course ended, her nerves felt thin. The moment the ladies rose from the table to retire to the parlor, she released a quiet breath.
Not relief. Just air.
She rose from her seat, beginning to plot her chance to speak to the Duke of Larcher privately.
But then an unmistakable voice stopped her.
“Hyacinth, my dear niece.”
Her stomach sank.
No.
Uncle Basil.
She turned around slowly. A smile reserved for dreadful acquaintances stretched her lips. “Uncle. What a… pleasant surprise.”
Her uncle beamed, oblivious to her tone. His hair gleamed beneath the light, his eyes sharp with calculation. “You’ve been difficult to catch all evening.”
“Perhaps I was running.”
“Now, now.” He chuckled, patting her hand. “I’ve brought someone you must meet.”
Of course you have.
Her heart sank further as a tall man stepped forward.
Charles Tonkin. Lord Maddern himself.
He bowed with polite precision. “Lady Hyacinth. An honor.”
Hyacinth curtseyed with the grace of a woman contemplating a window escape. “My Lord.”
Basil hummed with satisfaction. “The Viscount speaks most highly of you. Isn’t that right, Charles?”
The Viscount smiled, every inch the practiced suitor. “Your uncle is too kind.”
“Indeed,” Hyacinth murmured.
Basil gave her a pointed look, one that fairly shouted, Smile more. Laugh. Let him see your dimples.
But her dimples refused to pop out.
She managed another polite smile, though her attention was nowhere near the Viscount. Because, beyond her uncle’s shoulder, stood Maxwell, deep in conversation with the Duke of Whitmore.
The light shone upon his dark hair, softening his sharp jaw. And, as if drawn by an invisible thread, his eyes moved and found hers.
Of course they did.
The look he gave her was of quiet mischief. And she knew that was the moment she needed.
Without thinking, her fingers shifted. It was a subtle gesture toward the door, but he caught it.
His lips twitched. Just the corner, enough to say yes.
Basil was still speaking, something about a sailing trip, and the Viscount was nodding like an obedient hound. Hyacinth could hardly bear it.
“Uncle,” she interrupted sweetly. “You’ll forgive me. I find myself terribly parched. Perhaps I might fetch some refreshments.”
Basil barely paused. “Take the Viscount with you—”
“Oh no, Lord Maddern was about to tell you about the sails,” she said quickly, smiling at Maddern. “Do continue. It sounds fascinating.”
Before either man could protest, she dipped into a graceful curtsey and slipped away.
Her heart beat fast as she moved through the doorway, her slippers soundless against the marble floor. The corridor ahead was dimly lit, the chatter in the parlor fading behind her.
Stepping outside, she slowed down, breathing deeply as she adjusted the folds of her gown.
Will he come?
Every second was steeped in silence. One so heavy that her heartbeat was louder than the music in the next room.
She smoothed her skirts again, telling herself that it was absurd to feel nervous. This was simply a conversation, a proposal of logic, not… temptation.
Behind her, a door creaked softly.
Her breath caught instantly.
It is now or never.
Maxwell paused at the end of the corridor, one hand resting on the carved doorframe.
He should not be here. No gentleman in his right mind followed a woman—this woman—into a dimly lit hallway during a crowded house party. Not when the woman was the sister of his oldest friend. Not when every inch of his body felt like it already knew what hers would taste like.
And yet here he was.
He exhaled through his nose, a quiet, humorless sound.
Foolish, Larcher. Entirely foolish.
Still, curiosity had always been his weakness.
Hyacinth Warren. She had been a girl of clever remarks and bright eyes the first time he met her. She had always been trouble.
But tonight? She had looked like trouble disguised as grace. Trouble he could almost taste if he stepped too close.
And this was exactly why he needed to keep his distance.
Still, his feet carried him forward.
The hallway was half-shadow, half-lanternlight. The faint scent of roses and wax lingered in the air. When he rounded the corner, she was there, waiting.
Her gown was the soft color of wine. Her hair cascaded loose in defiance, embracing her curves in the right places. She stood perfectly still, except for the slight tremor in her fingers against the folds of her skirt.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just watched. The rise and fall of her chest. The tension in her shoulders.
Then, he finally spoke, his voice soft and low. “If this is a trap, Lady Hyacinth, I fear you’ve already succeeded.”
She turned at the sound. Her expression flickered with a certain emotion. It wasn’t surprise, nor was it relief. It was something heavier. Something complicated.
“You came,” she murmured.
His mouth curved, but not into a smile. “You sound disappointed.”
“I wasn’t certain you’d risk it.”
“I’m not in the habit of turning down intrigue,” he said. Then, more quietly, “Especially when it wears silk and waits for me in the dark.”
Her breath caught, not visibly, not obviously. But he saw the stutter of her chest, the way her fingers curled tighter into the fabric at her waist.
“You’re infuriating,” she whispered.
“You said that before.” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, letting the air shift with him. “And yet…”
Her back straightened, trying her best to lift her chin in defiance. Or defense. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“And yet,” he repeated.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It moved. It throbbed. As if it was filled with the weight of their glances, their breaths, and the unspoken thing hanging between them.
“I asked you to meet me,” she muttered, quieter now. “But I didn’t expect…”
He arched an eyebrow. “What? That I would come?”
“That I’d want you to.”
That stopped him. Finally.
Not her words, but her voice. The ache in it. The honesty. Like something had slipped past her lips before she could tuck it safely behind pride.
She turned away slightly, seemingly flustered by her own admission. But he moved again, slowly.
She could stop him if she wanted. But she didn’t.
Now they stood close. Too close. His presence surrounded her, not touching, but felt. Heat and tension without contact.
“I asked you here,” she spoke again, her voice wrapped with the night air, “because I need something.”
“Dangerous sentence,” he murmured. “Especially when spoken in the candlelight.”
“I’m serious, Your Grace.”
She did sound serious, and he felt the urge to rile her further just to see her come undone. The look in her eyes stilled him, however. They were devoid of humor, insistent on being heard.
So he didn’t tease her this time. Instead, he tilted his head slightly. “Then tell me.”
She hesitated. Her pulse fluttered visibly at her throat, and his gaze dropped to it.
God, she is standing so close.
He could smell her. Not just her perfume of rose water and lavender powder, but the warmer scent beneath it. Something like skin and silk and summer heat.
Hyacinth took another breath, as though she wanted to speak. But then she faltered again, her eyes flicking toward the end of the corridor.
Someone could discover them. They both knew that. So she had to be quick.
“I need your help,” she began. “And I don’t want anyone else involved.”
He studied her carefully. He could see the tension in her mouth and the great effort it had cost her to say those words.
Her words had been unpredictable. He had expected something about Alexander. But a favor? Requested by her?
“And what sort of help,” he asked, his voice lower, “do you need from a man like me?”
The corner of her mouth twitched, but it wasn’t amusement. It was fear. Still, she didn’t turn away from him. She stood bold, brave, and bare. Whatever she wanted, he could tell she needed it badly.
“I want to propose a deal,” Hyacinth declared, her voice breathier. He could almost feel the nervousness in it.
“A deal,” he repeated softly, his eyes narrowing.
She nodded. “You won’t like it.”
“That depends,” he said, his voice lowering further. “I’ve liked a great many things that weren’t good for me.”
She swallowed hard.
God, he could feel her wanting to speak. Wanting to run. Wanting to stay.
The air between them was crackling now. It felt heavy and intoxicating.
Then, with the slow exhale of someone finally surrendering, she revealed exactly what she needed from him. The plan she had devised so meticulously to escape the harsh fate being crafted in the hands of her uncle.
“Your Grace,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to ruin me.”