He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Not certain I can. You’re rather… unforgettable.”
The footsteps grew louder, the doorknob rattling faintly as the men’s voices sharpened.
She was a heartbeat away from discovery.
Chapter Two
EARLIER THAT NIGHT
“You simply must meet my daughter, Your Grace!” Lady Compton’s voice trilled over the violins, her gloved hand tugging Rhys through the glittering throng.
Her ostrich-feathered mask bobbed as she gestured to a giggling debutante in pink muslin, whose eyes widened at his approach.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Rhys offered, his voice as smooth as his black velvet mask, though his eyes flickered with impatience.
The ballroom’s chandeliers cast a golden haze over the dancing couples, the air thick with the scent of rosewater, wax, and ambition.
Another mama, another simpering miss.
His broad shoulders tensed under his tailored coat. He’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Oh, Your Grace, you look divinely dashing tonight!” the debutante—Miss Compton, presumably—gushed, her fan fluttering like a trapped bird. “That mask, so mysterious! And your coat—such elegance!”
“Thank you,” Rhys replied, his smile practiced. “You’re too kind, Miss…?” he trailed off, feigning interest, though his mind screamed for escape.
The matchmaking mamas had scented blood—a duke, unmarried, and newly returned from the Continent.
He was their prize, and he loathed it.
“Miss Amelia Compton,” she said, blushing furiously. “Might I have the honor of a dance?”
“Perhaps later,” he replied, bowing slightly, his dark brown hair catching the candlelight. “I’m parched and must seek refreshment.”
He sidestepped her, ignoring Lady Compton’s indignant huff, and wove through the crowd, his athletic frame deftly avoiding another mama’s grasp.
“Your Grace, my niece—” began a matron in a peacock mask.
Rhys flashed her a disarming grin, cutting her off. “Another time, Madam.”
He moved on, the clink of champagne glasses and the rustle of silk grating on his nerves.
Love, marriage—what nonsense.
There was no love found in the union between a man and a woman. He’d learned that truth early on, his heart hardened by a childhood of cold control and a mother’s meekness.
Yet duty gnawed at him. His tenants, his villages, were crumbling under neglect. He needed a wife to secure his inheritance, but the thought repulsed him.
For them, not me.
His gaze snagged on a figure in emerald silk, weaving through the crowd with a grace that bordered on defiance. Her dress, cut daringly low in the continental style, hugged her petite frame, and a heady scent—jasmine and amber, bold and un-English—trailed her. Her black lace mask concealed her face, but her posture screamed rebellion.
She’s seeking attention.
Rhys’s lips curved.
A calculated play, no doubt.
Intrigued, he watched her dodge a suitor with a sharp word, her voice edged like a blade.
