Chapter 1 #2
But still his awareness kept drifting to one woman, as though pulled by a tide he had not consented to enter.
Lady Vivy Ellsworth floated at the edge of a small circle, her mother’s hand resting possessively on her wrist, as if the duchess feared some eager suitor might snatch her away.
Vivy listened, smiled, and offered a gentle comment that made the others laugh.
Not with the practiced sharpness of the beau monde, but with something unguarded and true.
True things were dangerous, as dangerous as a well-placed lie. Both could be used in different ways. But this truth could be his undoing.
“Ravenwood.”
Dash did not startle at the sound of his voice being spoken behind him.
He did not even turn his head at once. The voice belonged to a man who had known him since boyhood and they both had survived long enough as spies to learn that approaching an unknown person was never wise, even at a ball.
The Duke of Lionston came to stand beside him as if it were mere happenstance.
He was impeccably dressed, appeared effortlessly charming, and he looked every inch the peer of the realm.
Only Dash would have noticed the slight tension at the duke’s jaw and the sharpness of his glance as it swept the room.
“You have that look,” Lionston murmured, his tone quiet to prevent anyone from eavesdropping. “The one that makes widows clutch their pearls and honest men wonder if they are about to find danger.”
Dash’s mouth twitched. “I am trying to appear bored.”
“You never learned to perfect that particular art. Boredom requires leisure.” Lionston flicked his gaze, briefly—just briefly—toward the entrance.
“You were at the warehouse.” The Lion Watch had been created by the duke to thwart any treason or anything else nefarious.
He would want an update on Dash’s progress on his current assignment.
“I was. Our translator has the paper.” He glanced at the duke. “You were already gone by the time I arrived.”
“And what did you learn?” Lionston asked.
“That I dislike waiting,” Dash drawled.
Lionston’s smile did not waver, but his voice lowered a fraction. “So, do I. That is why I came tonight. There is something you ought to see.”
Dash angled his head, barely. “Here?”
“In this room.” The duke slid his gaze past a knot of laughing young bucks. “On the left, near the card tables. Do you see him?”
Dash drifted his gaze in that direction without haste.
A gentleman stood half-shadowed by the drapes, not conversing with anyone, and he held a glass he never drank from in his hand.
His posture was too still, and his attention was too fixed on the crowd’s movements, rather than any single amusement.
“I see him,” Dash said.
“He arrived late without any introduction.” Dash had done the same. He had not seen him as he had arrived. “And he has been watching the doors for the last quarter of an hour.”
Dash’s thoughts snapped, cold and precise. “A runner?”
“Or a handler.” Lionston’s voice remained conversational. “We are being watched.”
Dash made no movement that could be called a reaction, yet his body tightened as if he had drawn a blade. Balls were an excellent cover for treachery. Music masked footsteps and laughter disguised short, urgent exchanges. A thousand people made it easy for anyone to have anonymity.
“What would Napoleon’s man want at Whitcombe House?” Dash asked, letting the question sound like idle curiosity.
Lionston shifted his gaze again, and this time they did not go to the stranger. They went to Lady Vivy Ellsworth. Dash felt the world narrow. “No,” he said softly, before he could stop himself.
Lionston’s expression remained polite, but something sharpened beneath it. “You noticed her.”
“She is impossible not to notice,” Dash replied in a clipped tone. Then, because he refused to lie even to himself, he added, “It means nothing.”
The duke’s mouth curved upward as if amused, but his gaze was anything but. “If it means nothing, that is fortunate for you. Because Avonridge has been the subject of quiet interest in certain circles.”
Dash returned his gaze to Vivy. He was careful now as he studied her not wanting Lionston to realize just how bewitched he was with her.
He watched her like a man perusing a map before battle.
Vivy was speaking to her sister, her smile was soft, and her shoulders were relaxed.
She looked safe. She looked…untouchable by anything uglier than gossip.
The stranger near the drapes remained motionless but his attention angled in her direction with the patience of someone waiting for the right moment. Dash’s instincts, honed by years of blood and smoke, did not whisper…they screamed at him.
“How long has he been staring at them?” Dash asked.
“Since their arrival was announced,” the duke answered.
Dash flexed his fingers, once at his side. “Someone intends to make use of her.”
Lionston flickered his gaze to Dash, quick and assessing. “Do you want me to handle it?”
Dash’s answer should have been immediate.
He should remain clean and detached… A man in his position did not offer himself as a shield for a duke’s daughter.
A man with secrets did not step into the path where he might corrupt someone innocent.
But he had already stepped into it the moment he was her again.
“No,” Dash said, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the music. “If there is danger in this room, it is my duty to remove it.” It was his duty to protect her.
Lionston’s brow lifted slightly. “Is that your duty…or your inclination?”
Dash did not dignify the question with a response.
Instead, he straightened, adjusted the cuff of his coat as though preparing to be bored in a different location, and moved.
He did not go directly to the drapes. Direct paths were for men who wished to be followed.
He crossed behind a group of dancers, paused to exchange a brief nod with an acquaintance he could not recall the name of, and drifted toward the card tables as though he meant to lose a fortune.
The stranger flicked his gaze toward him.
Dash met that gaze with the mild, indifferent stare of a peer who had never done a dangerous thing in his life.
Then he turned…smoothly, almost lazily…and angled toward the Ellsworths.
Because if the enemy had chosen their target, Dash would place himself in front of it.
Lady Lavinia’s mother was speaking with Lady Whitcombe near the dais. Lady Elizabeth laughed at something a young viscount said, her cheeks pink with triumph.
Lavinia stood a half-step apart—close enough to belong, distant enough to breathe.
She lifted her gaze again, as if she felt him before she saw him.
Her gaze found his. This time, she did not look away at once.
For a heartbeat, the room fell quiet in Dash’s mind.
He saw the curve of her mouth soften, the curiosity in her expression, and the faint question she did not ask because propriety forbade it.
Something in him….something he had kept locked behind iron discipline…
shifted. He bowed with perfect correctness.
Nothing in the gesture was intimate or warm.
Merely what courtesy demanded. Lady Lavinia’s lips parted slightly, as if surprised that he would acknowledge her at all.
Then she dipped into a graceful curtsy, her lashes lowered with her composure steady.
He came to a stop at a respectful distance, addressing the duchess first, because rules existed, and breaking them drew attention. “Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head.
The Duchess of Avonridge turned, her gaze cool, appraising. “Lord Ravenwood how good to see you again. It has been some time. Why have you not paid us a call since your return?”
A greeting and a warning all at once. Dash offered a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. “Please accept my apologies for neglecting my duty to you and His Grace. Organizing the estate has taken up a substantial amount of my time and I have only just began accepting invitations.”
“His Grace would appreciate a visit,” the duchess replied, her tone measured. “He might even be able to offer you some advice with your estates.”
“Then I shall take your advice and visit him posthaste.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly at that. “See that you do.”
Dash turned his attention with practiced ease to Lady Lavinia. “Lady Lavinia.”
“Lord Ravenwood,” she replied, her voice soft and clear. Not breathless or coy. Merely…sincere.
Sincerity was a rare commodity. Both dangerous and infuriating for a man such as he. Dash should have offered a bland compliment. He should have asked an inoffensive question and taken his leave. Instead, he said, “Will you stand for the next set with me?”
The duchess stiffened, just a fraction. Lady Lavinia blinked—once, twice—then color warmed her cheeks. Not bold crimson, but a delicate rose, as if she was astonished by his attention. “I…” She glanced, instinctively, to her mother.
The duchess’s gaze moved between them like a blade testing its edge. “Lord Ravenwood is not known for frivolous requests.” The duchess had a strange way of giving her permission…
Dash held her gaze. “Nor am I known for making them without reason. Please do me this honor, my lady.”
It was as close to truth as he could offer without ripping the curtain from the stage. The duchess’s mouth tightened. “Very well. Go enjoy the dance, Vivy.”
Lavinia’s breath seemed to catch—quiet and controlled. Then she offered Dash her hand. When his fingers closed around hers…lightly, as etiquette demanded…Dash felt a jolt of awareness so sharp it nearly unmade his careful composure. Almost as if he recognized where he belonged, and with whom.
She could be used. She could be hurt. She could be taken from this room by a man who did not care that she smiled like sunlight and happiness. Dash guided her toward the dance floor. As they passed, he saw the stranger near the drapes shift—subtle and quick. As if recalculating his strategy.
If the enemy wished to watch, Dash would give him a lesson in misdirection. “Do you dance often, Lord Ravenwood?” Lavinia asked quietly as they took their place, her tone polite, but her curiosity unmistakable.
Dash’s mouth curved faintly. “Only when compelled to.”
Her eyes brightened. “By duty?”
“By necessity,” he corrected.
The orchestra lifted into the first notes of the waltz. Dash placed his hand at her waist, ensuring to be careful as he drew her into the pattern of the dance. She moved with a grace that spoke of countless hours of instruction.
As they spun through the candlelight, Dash tracked the room over her shoulder. Lionston remained near the column, his posture relaxed and his gaze sharp. The stranger had moved. Not closer to the other Ellsworths. No, he had moved closer to the side door. As if preparing to leave or to send word.
Dash’s jaw tightened. He would not be outmaneuvered on a ballroom floor. “Lady Lavinia,” he said softly, timing his words with a turn so no one could read his lips.
“Yes?”
“If I ask you a question,” he murmured, “will you think me rude?”
Her gaze lifted to his, honest and unguarded. “I do not think you are rude, my lord. Only…difficult to read.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “Good,” he said. “Then tell me…have you received any unusual attention of late? Letters you did not expect? Conversations that left you uneasy?”
Her brows drew together. Confusion, then thoughtfulness. “No,” she said slowly. “At least…not that I recall. Why do you ask?”
Because someone is watching you like prey. Because I will not allow it. Because I am a fool. He said instead, “Because I do not like surprises.” It wasn’t really an answer to her question, but he couldn’t tell her the truth.
Her lips softened again. “Nor do I.”
The words should have been nothing. Yet they landed on him like a vow.
They completed the turn, the music carrying them onward.
After the dance ended, he delivered her back to her mother’s side.
He surveyed the room once more and discovered the man had left.
He made a decision then with the cold certainty of a man stepping onto a battlefield.
He would find out who that stranger was, and he would decipher the missive.
If any man thought to harm Lady Lavinia Ellsworth…they would learn what it meant to provoke the Earl of Ravenwood. Because weakness, once discovered, became either a wound…or a weapon.
And Dash had just chosen which he intended her to be.