He stood at the landing above the spiral stair, cloaked in shadow. Tall. Unnaturally so. Was it the angle, the skewed perspective of being so far beneath him? Or was his towering stature undeniable, evident in the width of his shoulders, the muscular length of his legs, the long pale fingers curved around the banister?
The shadows made discerning features difficult. Evangeline could not tell if he were truly as savage as he appeared, or if a trick of the light—or lack thereof—caused the slatted darkness to undulate across his form. Almost without realizing it, she began to back away.
He continued down the spiral stairway, silent and sure, the leather of his boots making no noise on the cold marble. Although shadows obscured his face, his eyes glittered like those of a wolf loping alongside a lonely carriage. Thin fingers still curled lightly around the gleaming banister, he took another step forward. When there were as many steps behind him as there were before him, a brief flicker from a nearby sconce lit his face.
Evangeline swallowed a gasp.
Not because of the obsidian eyes framed by equally black lashes. Nor because of the angry slash of cheekbones, the flash of bared teeth, or the scar just above the edge of his jaw. Those things, though separately terrible, together formed a face of cold, cruel beauty.
Another flutter of orange light as he reached the final stair, and Evangeline could no longer breathe.
He was angry. Horribly angry. His eyes glittered like a wolf’s because hewasa wolf, a beautiful, powerful, violent wolf, prowling toward his unsuspecting prey. His dark hair slid across his face, snapping Evangeline from her trance just as his long, gloveless hand fell atop the countess’s shoulder.
Lady Heatherbrook started, froze, blanched. Her fingers touched her neck, grasping at her bare throat. Her shoulders curved inward, her spine slumped, as though his mere touch had the power to melt her very bones, deflating her from countess to servant in the space of a breath.
“Gavin,” she said, the name almost a whisper. “You’ve come to meet our guests.”
His brow arched. “Have I?”
She winced, but continued on, louder now, her voice infused with false gaiety, as if she were an ordinary hostess greeting ordinary guests, and not a shell of a countess with her unprotected back toward her parents’ killer.
“This is Lady Stanton,” she said. A brittle smile stretched her mouth, making the words came out unnatural and strange. “This is her lovely daughter, Miss Susan Stanton.”
Trembling, Evangeline waited to hear her name. It was not forthcoming.
In light of their host’s murderous expression, she was more pleased than offended by the omission. But then Susan—still without her spectacles—gave a weak wave, indicating the edge of the room where Evangeline had stood to watch the wolf’s descent.
“Miss Pemberton,” Susan squeaked. “Miss Pemberton is also with us.”
The wolf’s gaze snapped to Evangeline’s, his face turning so fast she’d barely caught the motion. Trapped, she could neither breathe nor blink.
His shoulders rolled back, his lips hardened, his muscles flexed. No—he was not a wolf, but a lion. Twice as dangerous.
His eyes were black, recessed as though he hadn’t slept well. For decades. His gaze, however, was dark and quick, as if nothing so trivial as a sleepless night would stop him from tracking her down, should she be foolish enough to flee.
She couldn’t flee. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. Evangeline could only stare, wide-eyed and helpless.
He returned the scrutiny, made her the object of his sole and endless focus. The sheen fell from his eyes until they were flat and hard. Even candlelight no longer reflected on their surface. The corners of his lips quirked in a smile that was more ferocious than friendly.
“Guests.” The single word, a belated echo of the countess’s earlier statement, seemed to scatter the charged air, prickling them all with a unleashed fury. “So I see.”
This time, the countess did turn to face him, although her gaze did not meet his. “May we discuss our matter privately?” The unsteadiness of her voice belied the reproach in her words.
He turned toward the countess. Released from his stare, Evangeline desperately sucked in air. He stiffened, as if he could hear her uneven breaths above the pounding of her heart, but his gaze stayed on the countess. “Be assured, Rose. We will.”
After an uncertain moment, Lady Heatherbrook angled her body to one side, gesturing with one gloved arm. “Lady Stanton, Miss Stanton, Miss Pemberton. May I present my brother, Mr. Gavin Lioncroft.”
Ignoring both mute Stantons, Lioncroft’s eyes fixed on Evangeline once again. In one fluid movement, he gave a sweeping, mocking bow. The murderer, it seemed, had both elegance and grace.
Mechanically, Evangeline dipped in an answering curtsy—or, at least, tried to. Her blistered heel gave way beneath her. Her boot slipped across the slick marble, pitching her forward.
At first, she thought her dark-haired tormenter had moved closer, as though to catch her before she toppled to the ground. But then she was being righted by a footman, and Lioncroft seemed to be laughing at her with his black glittering eyes and beautiful unsmiling mouth.
He looked, Evangeline realized, like someone accustomed to having commoners like her faint dead away at the sight of him. And why not? He was an aristocrat, a murderer, an animal.
A man perhaps even worse than the monster she had fled.
Chapter 2
