Chapter Seventeen
“You’re staring at my wife, Lord Thornbury. I suggest you redirect your attention before I redirect it for you.”
Adrian’s voice carried just enough edge to slice through the Earl of Thornbury’s leering smile without causing a scene.
The older man’s face flushed crimson before he turned away with a muttered apology, disappearing into the crush of bodies that filled the Duke and Duchess of Duskbourne’s ballroom.
Cassian appeared at Adrian’s elbow, two crystal flutes of champagne in hand. “Territorial already? You’ve only been married a fortnight.”
“Thornbury’s a lech.” Adrian accepted the glass without looking at his friend, his gaze fixed instead on Cecilia across the room.
She stood in conversation with Charlotte and Lydia, lamplight catching copper fire in her hair.
She’d worn emerald silk tonight—his mother’s emeralds at her throat—and the effect was...
Devastating.
“She looks magnificent,” Cassian observed, following Adrian’s line of sight. “Charlotte said she’s never seen you so besotted.”
“Charlotte has an active imagination.”
“Charlotte is rarely wrong.” Cassian’s tone carried amusement. “Admit it, Ravenscar. Your ice is melting.”
Before Adrian could formulate a suitably cutting response, the orchestra struck up a waltz. He set down his untouched champagne. “Excuse me.”
He crossed the ballroom floor with measured strides, aware of the eyes tracking his movement. The ton thrived on gossip, and the sudden marriage of the Ice Duke to an unknown Scottish lady had provided weeks of speculation. Let them watch. Let them wonder.
Cecilia looked up as he approached, green eyes widening fractionally. Something flickered across her face—surprise, perhaps, or wariness—before that practised social smile settled into place.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsy that was just deep enough to be proper, just shallow enough to suggest irony.
“Duchess.” He extended his hand. “Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a request. Charlotte and Lydia exchanged knowing glances, stepping back with barely concealed delight.
“How charmingly commanding,” Cecilia murmured, placing her gloved hand in his. “Have you considered trying ‘please’ occasionally? It’s rather revolutionary.”
“I save politeness for people I don’t want to touch.”
Her breath caught—just barely, just enough that he felt it in the sudden tension of her fingers against his palm. Good. Let her be as unsettled as he’d been all evening, watching other men catalogue the graceful curve of her neck, the way candlelight played across her collarbone.
He led her onto the floor, one hand settling at her waist, the other clasping hers with perhaps more firmness than the dance required.
The waltz began, and they moved together with surprising ease—her steps matching his without hesitation, her body responding to subtle shifts in pressure and direction.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said after a moment.
“You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised. Aching.” The honesty escaped before he could cage it. “I knew you would be beautiful, Cecilia. What I hadn’t expected was that I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes off you entirely.”
Her breath caught, colour blooming across her cheeks in a way that made his chest tighten. “I—”
“Should I not be paying attention to how my wife looks?”
“Well, I rather thought you’d be somewhat distracted.” She glanced toward the edge of the ballroom. “Half the ladies of the ton seem unable to pry their eyes off you.”
Adrian’s lips curved. “Are you jealous?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd!” But her cheeks flushed. “They can look all they like. I’m the one who gets to—”
“Gets to what?” His voice dropped, his hand at her waist pulling her half an inch closer. “Finish that thought, wife.”
“You… you know perfectly well what I mean.”
“I do. But I want to hear you say it. Here. Now. While we’re surrounded by London society, and you’re blushing like you’ve already done something scandalous.”
“Adrian—”
“Say it.” The words came out rough, almost pleading.
Cecilia leaned closer, rising on her toes, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m the one who gets to have you in ways none of them ever will.”
His breath caught, fingers digging into her waist hard enough to leave marks. “Christ, Cecilia…”
“Look.” She nodded almost imperceptibly toward the edge of the ballroom. “We have an audience.”
He didn’t look. Didn’t need to. He’d felt the weight of observation since they’d taken the floor—heavier than usual, more focused. “We always have an audience. It’s the burden of rank.”
“No.” Something in her voice made his spine stiffen. “This is different. They’re not just watching. They’re...”
Waiting.
The word hung unspoken between them, but Adrian felt it settle in his chest like a stone. He spun her through a turn, using the movement to scan the room without appearing to. Cassian stood near the refreshment table, his expression tight. Charlotte had gone pale, one hand pressed to her mouth.
“Adrian...” Cecilia’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “What’s happening?”
The whispers started like a match struck in darkness—small, easily missed, then spreading with terrifying speed. Adrian heard snatches as they danced past various groups:
“...jilted at the altar...”
“...Duke of Wexford didn’t want her...”
“... heard she disguised herself as a servant...”
“...spied on him in his own house? The audacity...”
Ice flooded Adrian’s veins. Not the numbing cold he’d cultivated for years, but something sharper, more dangerous. Fury.
Cecilia had gone rigid in his arms, her face draining of colour so rapidly he thought she might faint. “Oh God.”
“Don’t.” His hand tightened at her waist, holding her upright through sheer force of will. “Don’t you dare collapse. Not here. Not in front of them.”
“They know.” Her voice emerged barely above a whisper, each word cracking like ice. “Adrian, they know everything. How—”
“Later.” He guided her through another turn, his mind racing. The details were too accurate, too specific. Someone had told them—someone who’d been there, who’d witnessed her arrival as Clara Vale, who’d known about Wexford’s desertion in Scotland.
Someone inside his household.
The waltz ended. Polite applause rippled through the ballroom, but it sounded hollow, performative. Adrian became acutely aware of the space opening around them—guests stepping back as though scandal were contagious, creating a circle of isolation in the middle of the glittering crowd.
“Your Grace.” Lady Pemberton’s voice cut through the sudden quiet, dripping with false sympathy. “How... brave of you both to attend this evening. Given the circumstances.”
Adrian turned slowly, deliberately, fixing the countess with the look that had made grown men reconsider their business ventures. “And pray tell, what circumstances would those be, Lady Pemberton?”
The woman actually had the audacity to flutter her fan. “Why, the unfortunate business in Scotland, of course. And then the...” she paused delicately “...creative approach to courtship. Though I suppose when one has been so publicly humiliated, desperate measures are called for.”
Cecilia flinched as though struck. Adrian saw the way her shoulders curled inward, protective, the slight tremor that ran through her frame.
Something inside him snapped.
“Desperate measures.” He repeated the words with glacial precision.
“Is that what you call intelligence and courage, madam? My wife demonstrated more resourcefulness in a fortnight than you’ve managed in your entire vapid existence.
She wanted to know the man she might marry rather than relying on gossip from bitter-tongued harpies with nothing better to occupy their small minds.
I find that admirable. Revolutionary, even. ”
Lady Pemberton’s face turned an interesting shade of purple. “Well, I never—”
“No,” Adrian agreed. “You never have. Thought, that is. It’s painfully obvious.”
“Adrian.” Cecilia’s hand touched his arm, her voice low and urgent. “Please. Don’t make this worse.”
“Worse?” He looked down at her, saw tears gathering in her eyes despite her obvious efforts to hold them back. “How exactly could this be worse?”
As if in answer, the crowd parted. Henry stepped forward, his expression arranged in perfect lines of concerned sympathy. “Cousin. Perhaps it would be best if you took the Duchess home. The evening seems to have become... overwhelming for her.”
Every muscle in Adrian’s body tensed.
“How thoughtful of you to be so concerned for my wife’s welfare.” Adrian’s voice was silk over steel—soft, pleasant, and absolutely lethal. He held Henry’s gaze for a long, frigid moment. “I am certain we’ll have the opportunity to discuss your… concern at length. Very soon.”
The words were innocuous, but their delivery was noted.
Henry’s practised smile faltered at the edges. “I merely thought—”
“Indeed.” Adrian’s interruption was gentle, final. He turned away, dismissing his cousin as one might dismiss a footman, and the calculated insult landed precisely as intended. Around them, guests shifted uncomfortably, sensing the undercurrent of menace without quite understanding its source.
Cassian materialised at Adrian’s side, Charlotte directly behind him. “Perhaps we should retire to my study,” he said quietly. “Away from prying eyes.”
“An excellent suggestion.” Adrian held out his arm to Cecilia. She took it with trembling fingers, her composure fracturing with each breath. “Duchess. Allow me to escort you.”
They moved through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea—guests stumbling over themselves to clear a path, faces ranging from shock to poorly concealed glee.
Adrian kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw locked, every fibre of his being focused on getting Cecilia out of this ballroom before she completely shattered.
She lasted until they reached the corridor, then her legs simply gave out.