Chapter Eight
“Tell me again why we’re subjecting ourselves to this tedium?”
Henry’s complaint barely registered as Adrian surveyed the Pemberton ballroom with practised disinterest. Gilt chandeliers dripping crystal like frozen tears.
Predictable orchestration—another waltz, always another waltz.
The usual collection of ambitious mamas parading eligible daughters like prized livestock at market.
“Because,” Adrian said flatly, “Lord Pemberton holds considerable sway in Parliament, and I require his vote on the shipping regulations.”
“How devastatingly practical.” Henry accepted champagne from a passing footman with the casual entitlement of a man who’d never been denied anything. “One would think the Ice Duke might occasionally do something purely for enjoyment rather than political manoeuvring.”
“Enjoyment is inefficient.”
“Good God, you’re tedious when you’re being virtuous.” Henry took a long drink. “Though I notice you’ve been distracted all evening. Keep staring at the entrance like you’re expecting someone. Thinking about a certain copper-haired companion, perhaps?”
Adrian’s jaw tightened fractionally. He’d been thinking about Clara Vale far too much since yesterday—the taste of her mouth, the sound she’d made when his hand had brushed her breast, the way she’d looked at him with those green eyes that saw entirely too much.
The memory had left him half-hard and restless all night, his dreams troubled with visions of her writhing beneath him, that glorious hair spread across his pillows while she gasped his name.
He’d woken aching and furious with himself for the weakness.
Dismissing her had been necessary. Cruel, perhaps, but necessary. She made him want things he couldn’t afford to want. Made him feel things he’d buried for excellent reasons.
“I’m thinking,” Adrian said coolly, “about estate management and political alliances. Nothing more.”
“Liar.” Henry’s grin was sharp with knowing. “You’ve had that look all evening—the one that says you’re contemplating something thoroughly inadvisable. I know that look. It’s the same one you wore right before you punched Ashworth at White’s three years ago.”
“Ashworth deserved it.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. But it was still inadvisable.” Henry’s attention shifted suddenly, his entire body going still in a way that made Adrian immediately wary. “Speaking of inadvisable... well, well… how very interesting.”
“What?”
“Don’t look now—” Henry paused for dramatic effect that made Adrian want to throttle him “—but your future father-in-law has just arrived. With a rather striking young woman on his arm.” His tone carried something Adrian couldn’t quite identify.
Amusement? Surprise? “The mysterious Lady Cecilia, I presume. Finally making her social debut after all these years of hiding in Scotland.”
Adrian turned despite himself, following Henry’s gaze.
The Earl of Bedford stood near the entrance, greeting their hosts with the practised ease of a man comfortable navigating society’s treacherous waters. Beside him, accepting Lord Pemberton’s bow with effortless grace, stood—
Understanding hit him with the subtlety of an avalanche and roughly the same devastation.
Clara Vale.
Except she wasn’t Clara Vale. Not dressed in a grey companion’s garb with severe bun and spectacles.
This woman wore emerald silk that brought out the impossible green of her eyes, the gown cut to showcase a figure he’d only felt through layers of drab fabric.
Her copper hair was dressed fashionably with delicate pearls woven through the arrangement, catching candlelight and turning it to flame.
She moved like someone born to ballrooms, her posture perfect, her smile practised and polite as she greeted Lady Pemberton.
The realisation hit Adrian with the force of a physical blow, stealing breath from his lungs. The woman he’d hired as his aunt’s companion, the woman who’d invaded his study and his thoughts and his carefully ordered life—was his intended bride. Had been his intended bride all along.
She’d lied to him. For weeks, she’d looked him in the eye and lied with consummate skill while he’d suspected something was amiss but never quite believed anyone could be so audacious, so recklessly bold as to infiltrate a duke’s household.
While he’d kissed her thoroughly and inappropriately, thinking she was simply a mysterious servant with secrets, she’d been spying on him. Judging him. Gathering intelligence about the man her father was forcing her to marry.
“Adrian?” Henry’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are you quite all right? You’ve gone rather pale. Well, paler than usual, which for you is saying something.”
“Fine.” The word emerged clipped, controlled, giving away nothing of the fury building beneath his ribs like pressure behind ice. “Perfectly fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar. Always have been.
” Henry’s gaze followed Adrian’s stare across the ballroom, landing on the red-haired beauty in emerald silk.
His eyes widened fractionally. “Good heavens… that’s—” he broke off, a slow, dangerous smile playing across his lips.
“That’s your precious Miss Vale, isn’t it, cousin?
Your aunt’s oh-so-devoted little companion.
” His laugh was sharp with genuine delight.
“Well, well… the plot thickens considerably.”
Across the ballroom, Lady Cecilia—he couldn’t think of her as Clara anymore, that name had been just another lie—laughed at something Lord Pemberton said. The sound carried even through the orchestra and conversation, musical and utterly false. Or was it? Had anything about her been real?
“She’s quite lovely,” Henry mused, following Adrian’s stare.
“Bit on the nose with the green dress to match those eyes, but I suppose we can forgive her the vanity. The Earl clearly spared no expense on her wardrobe. That’s French silk if I’m not mistaken, and those pearls are—” He stopped abruptly.
“You have to appreciate how delicious this is, cousin!”
“Shut up, Henry.”
“Oh, I don’t think I will. This is far too entertaining.” Henry’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “You’re looking at her like you’d very much like to either ravish her or murder her. Possibly both. Should I be concerned?”
“You should be silent.”
“When have I ever been silent? It’s not my most charming quality.” Henry took another drink, still watching Adrian with that unnerving focus. “You’re gripping your champagne glass hard enough to shatter it.”
Had anything about her been real? The conversations with his aunt, full of laughter and gentle patience?
The way she’d handled Aunt Flora’s confusion with such tender care, never once showing frustration or condescension?
The defiant lift of her chin when she’d challenged his assumptions about class and worth, arguing for the dignity of all people regardless of birth?
The way she’d kissed him back yesterday with desperate hunger that had felt entirely, devastatingly genuine?
“She hasn’t done anything,” Adrian managed, his voice flat.
“Liar,” Henry said again, but this time his tone held curiosity rather than amusement.
“You forget I’ve known you since we were children.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you this unsettled.
The last time was when—” He stopped, understanding dawning in his expression. “Oh. Oh, this is going to be good.”
“If you value your life, you’ll stop talking.”
“Threatening me now? Definitely entertaining.” But Henry’s expression had shifted to something approaching concern.
“Whatever’s happening, cousin, perhaps take a breath before you do something spectacularly ill-advised.
Remember what happened with Lady Nicole.
Society has a long memory for ducal scandals. ”
The mention of Nicole—the woman whose false accusations had nearly destroyed him three years ago—only made Adrian’s rage burn colder, harder. Another woman who’d lied to him. Another woman who’d played him for a fool.
He should have learned his lesson then.
“The Earl is heading this way,” Henry murmured, setting down his glass with deliberate care. “With his lovely daughter. Brace yourself, cousin.”
Adrian’s hands curled into fists at his sides before he consciously forced them to relax. The Ice Duke. That’s who he needed to be now. Cold, controlled, giving away nothing of the betrayal churning through him like acid, the hurt he refused to acknowledge even to himself.
“Yer Grace!” The Earl’s voice boomed with false heartiness as he approached, his Scottish accent thick with pleasure.
“There ye are. I’ve been hopin’ to find ye.
May I present my daughter? Lady Cecilia, this is His Grace, the Duke of Devonshire.
Your Grace, my daughter, Lady Cecilia Bedford, recently returned from Edinburgh. ”
Cecilia stepped forward, and for one frozen moment, their eyes met.
He watched fear flash across her face before she locked it away behind a polite mask that rivalled his own.
For a heartbeat, she was Clara again—uncertain, vulnerable, real.
Then the mask settled, and she curtsied with perfect deportment, her gaze dropping demurely as any proper young lady meeting her intended for the first time.
“Your Grace. I’m honoured to make your acquaintance.”
That voice. The same voice that had read poetry to his aunt with such feeling. The same voice that had challenged him about walls and prisons, about ice and fire. But now it carried a refined Scottish lilt he’d never heard before—because she’d hidden it, just another layer of deception.
The same voice that had whispered his name with breathless want just before he’d kissed her senseless against his aunt’s bookshelf.
All lies. Every word, every moment, every touch.
“Lady Cecilia.” Adrian bowed with precise correctness, his tone Arctic enough to freeze the champagne in his glass. “The honour is entirely mine. Your father has spoken highly of you.”