Not a simpering debutante, then.
His interest was piqued, but the crowd closed in again.
“Your Grace!” a familiar voice boomed.
Rhys turned to face Lord Ashford, his host, whose crimson mask accentuated his silver hair. A close friend of his late father, his presence carried a weight of expectation.
“Still playing the rogue, I see. Flirting with every lady but committing to none.”
Rhys’s smile tightened, his social mask firmly in place. “I’m merely enjoying the evening, Ashford. No need to rush fate.”
“Rush?” Lord Ashford’s bushy brows rose. “You’re a duke, Harken. Your estate needs stability, not scandals. Stop toying with these girls and choose a wife. Your father would’ve had you wed by now.”
Rhys’s jaw clenched, his father’s shadow—cold, controlling—looming in his mind.
“My father’s wishes no longer bind me,” he said coolly, “but I’ll choose in my own time.”
An unsuitable bride, perhaps, to spite his father.
“Your tenants deserve better. I know you’re hard at work, but you need your inheritance to make things better. Settle down, man, before you lose more than your reputation.” Ashford frowned, undeterred, but his voice was softer than his expression. “Since you’re constantly refusing matchmaking attempts, then at least sit still and let love find you.”
The words stung, hitting the core of Rhys’s duty.
His villages were deteriorating. His people were suffering. His father had made sure that the only way he accessed his inheritance was by taking a wife. Only then would he have more than enough money to help his people.
Marriage was the key, but love? A fantasy he’d never indulge.
“I hear you,” he said, his tone clipped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—I need air.”
He slipped away before Ashford could press further, dodging another debutante’s hopeful smile.
The ballroom’s heat, the cloying perfumes, the weight of expectation—it was all suffocating.
He needed solitude, a moment to clear his head.
Spotting a velvet-curtained hallway, he moved swiftly, his boots silent on the parquet. The library beyond promised quiet, a refuge from the ton’s relentless chatter and pursuit.
He was wrong.
Present
The doorknob rattled, men’s voices growing louder, and Rhys’s instincts kicked in.
He couldn’t be caught alone with an unwed woman. Not now, not when his title and crumbling estate demanded a strategic marriage. The mysterious lady in the emerald-green dress, her jasmine-and-amber perfume still clouding his senses, stood frozen, her blue eyes wide behind her mask.
No time to think.
Rhys scooped her up, his arms strong from years of riding and fencing, and carried her toward the heavy velvet curtains by the tall windows, all while ignoring her gasps.
“Unhand me at once!” she hissed, her petite frame squirming against his chest.
“Quiet, or we’re both ruined,” Rhys muttered.
He slipped behind the curtains and pressed her against the cold stone wall, the fabric cocooning them. The men’s voices—slurred, drunken—spilled into the library as the door creaked open.
“How dare you!” she whisper-shouted, her breath hot against his ear, her body rigid under his.
Her silk dress rustled, every inch of fabric somehow managing to brush against his coat. The tension lit a spark inside him, small, easily killed once he left her presence.
