Nathaniel glanced toward the door as the striking pair descended the shallow staircase into the ballroom. His eyes lingered on the countess with interest.This woman was Alice’s sister. But then his pulse gave a single hard thud and stoppedaltogether as his eyes slid to the doorway at the same time the butler’s next words seemed to reverberate through the hall.
“Lady Greystone!”
And there she was.
Alice.
She stood poised at the top of the stairs, the candlelight catching in her dark hair, turning it to polished mahogany. Her gown was a masterpiece of silk and shimmer, deep violets and twilight blues that swirled like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. She was serene, regal, every inch the viscountess she insisted she could never be. It was an act, he knew. He had seen her perform too many times not to know when she was wearing her role like armor. But the important thing was that she had come. She was wielding her talent to be Lady Greystone. His wife.
His chest tightened.
Mrs. Ashbury tugged at his sleeve with a tinkling laugh. “Lord Greystone, the set is starting.”
He gently disentangled himself from her grasp. “Forgive me, madam,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “I find I am otherwise engaged. My wife has arrived.”
And then he was moving, weaving through the sea of silks and superfine coats, his gaze locked on Alice as though she were the only soul in the room. His heart thudded against his ribs, not like a drum but like a cavalry charge—powerful, relentless, unstoppable.
She had come.
She had styled herself as Lady Greystone.
She had made her move.
And now it was his turn.
He would not disappoint her.
CHAPTER 34
Alice’sfingerscurledaroundher fan so tightly the ribs bit into her palm. She had seen the way the painted widow had leaned into Nathaniel, the brazen display of flesh, the simpering tilt of her head. Her stomach had twisted with molten-hot possessiveness. If he had not shrugged the woman off when he did, Alice might have caused a scandal of her own making, marching across the ballroom to stake her claim in front of half of London.
But there had been no need.
Nathaniel had looked up, seen her, and something had changed in him. She had felt the energy from across the room connecting them like some invisible current. It had arced between them, burning away the distance.
Now he was moving toward her, cutting through the crowd with unhurried, predatory grace. People stepped aside instinctively, as though parting for royalty, or perhaps for a man who would allow no obstacle to stand between himself and hisquarry. The people in the room became a blur, the music distant, muffled. Only he stood out in sharp detail.
When he reached her, he stopped so close his heat scorched her front, the scent of his cologne, familiar and exotic, intoxicated her senses. The intensity in his gaze nearly stole her breath.
“Lady Greystone,” he said, his voice pitched low enough for her alone, though she knew half the room strained to hear. “I believe the next dance is mine.”
Her pulse fluttered in her throat. Her fan drooped slightly as she slid her gloved hand into his outstretched palm.
“How can it be, my lord, when I have just arrived?” she replied, her tone playful despite—or perhaps because of—the storm gathering in her chest.
A collective whisper rippled through the onlookers as Nathaniel placed her hand on his sleeve and led her toward the floor. She felt the weight of a hundred eyes follow them, heard the rise of whispers like rustling silk. She knew the entire ballroom was holding their collective breath. Waiting for the unfolding of the drama between the viscount and his mysterious wife. Looking for any gossip they could repeat tomorrow in the ton’s drawing rooms. Hoping for a juicy scene that would make their story more lurid.
Alice held her ground, her chin lifting a fraction. Let them all watch. Let them see who she was—whatshe was. Nathaniel’s wife.
“It’s still mine. All your dances are mine.”
“Quite a stir it would cause if you insist on dancing every dance with me. I’m no social expert, but I believe that is considered gauche.” She couldn’t resist teasing.
Then Nathaniel drew her into his arms, and she lost her desire to argue. The rest of the world vanished. She was exactly whereshe belonged. In her husband’s arms, swaying together, carried away by the music.
During a turn, Nathaniel drew her closer—much closer than was proper—but Alice couldn’t complain. Having their bodies attuned, moving in tandem as if guided by some ancient rhythm…They weren’t just dancing; they were speaking in a language older than words, more primal than thought.
Nathaniel leaned in, his breath warm against her temple. “I am delighted by your presence tonight. I was counting down the minutes until I could go home to you.”
