A dance?
Evelyn thought she didn’t hear that well. Dance? Withhim?It took all her restraint not to recoil. Her mouth opened, the refusal perched on her tongue like a falcon ready to strike, but before the words could take flight, her mother laid a gentle, warning hand on her arm.
“Evelyn,” she whispered, “we mustn’t make a scene.”
Her jaw tightened. Her heart thundered. But she knew what her mother meant. Declining a dance without cause was not just rude, it was a declaration, and this night was too public.
She looked up at the Viscount. Every inch of her screamedno.
But she dipped into a small, formal curtsy, teeth clenched behind her smile, feeling the stab of each of these subsequent words she was forced to speak aloud. “Of course, My Lord.”
He offered his arm. She took it. And as he led her onto the ballroom floor beneath chandeliers that glittered like watching eyes, Evelyn vowed that whatever secrets he was keeping, whatever horrors he had locked behind Matilda’s closed door… she would uncover them. Even if it meant dancing with the devil.
The moment they stepped onto the dancing area, the violins soared. Evelyn placed her hand upon the Viscount of Firth’s shoulder though every bone in her body resisted the touch. His gloved hand found her waist with too much familiarity, the pressure just a shade heavier than was proper. They began to move, following a mechanical waltz beneath the chandeliers. For a moment, they danced in silence. The polite kind, the brittle veneer of civility stretched over a chasm of loathing.
Then he leaned in.
“You know,” he murmured, the scent of cardamom clinging to his breath, “I always did think you would come around. A woman like you, so sharp, so fiery… it’s the flame that licks theblade, not the hearth that keeps it. You were meant for more than polite titles and dreary dukes.”
Evelyn kept her smile frozen in place though she longed to break his nose with her fan.
“Is that what you told my sister?” she replied sweetly. “Before or after you dimmed the flame in her eyes?”
He chuckled, and the sound grated her. “Matilda is… pliable. Obedient. Not every woman can manage boldness as well as you, my dear. But still… I wonder.” His gaze swept over her face, hungry and vile. “Have you reconsidered? Running away, I mean. Or perhaps, now that you’re a duchess, you’ve simply decided you’d rather befamiliarwith power before deciding who wields it best.”
Evelyn’s blood turned to ice. Her steps faltered for half a beat before she righted them, her fingers tightening on his sleeve.
“You are filth,” she said, the words precise, controlled, but venomous. “My husband is twice the man you will ever be. And I would rather dance with the hounds in Hyde Park than be anything to you.”
His face changed. His charm evaporated like fog at noon, revealing the shadow beneath, revealing the predator in the parlor. His grip on her waist became punishing, his smile now a mask pulled tight over rage.
“You’ll regret that,” he said softly, venom threading each word. “You always did have a mouth that moved faster than your sense. You’ll find London is not so safe for arrogant little duchesses with scandal on their heels and no family willing to shield them. I could?—”
But he never finished.
Another voice, low and calm, cut through the swell of strings like a blade through silk.
“I believe you’ve had your turn, My Lord. Might I steal my wife for the next?”
The Viscount’s head snapped around. Evelyn didn’t need to look. The sound of that voice rushed through her like a sigh of relief and a crack of thunder all at once.
Robert.
She turned, and there he was, clad in black like vengeance itself, eyes trained on the Viscount with a polite smile that didn’t reach their cold, assessing depths.
The Viscount hesitated. The other dancers spun on, unaware that a battle had formed in the quiet beneath chandeliers. Evelyn could feel the tension stretch like a taut string between them.
Robert stepped forward, extending his hand to her. “My dear?”
Her answer was silent but final. She slipped free of the Viscount’s grip and into Robert’s, as if she’d been waiting for rescue, not because she was weak but because the man beside her was the storm she would rather ride into battle with than face the world alone.
The Viscount’s jaw flexed. He gave a tight, shallow bow.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
And stepped aside.
Robert’s hand slid to her back, and they began to dance.
