Miss Breckenridge recoiled as if Ellie had suggested eating spiders with tea. “Are you mad? I’ve no wish to be nibbled upon by Lord Lovenip, no matter how handsome the devil’s spawn might be. Dance with him yourself if you’d like to tempt him into action.”
Nibbled upon. Yes. That did sound—Ellie gave her head a violent shake. No, rather. What bug was in her brain today? She had no wish to be nibbled upon, by this charlatan or anyone else. Furthermore, whilst Mr. Macane might be a rake of the first order, that hardly made him an undead creature bent on draining the blue blood from London’s finest.
Should she risk a dance to prove it? Certainly. Miss Elspeth Ramsay was more than willing to get her hands dirty in the name of science.
But how?
No one knew her. She was a dowdy spinster in outdated attire, hidden in a shadowy corner of the ballroom. Anonymity was the crux of any covert investigation. That’s why every time she infiltrated a crowd, she spent the first quarter hour mentally chanting, Don’t look at me, Don’t remember me, at everyone who passed her by.
It went well against the grain to wish for the opposite. And if the unthinkable happened and Lord Lovenip did happen to notice an unremarkable old maid flanking the third daughter of a viscount, he’d suppose her Miss Breckenridge’s chaperone before he thought her a viable partner.
Besides, did she even know how to dance? Ellie frowned, realizing for the first time that her ability to perform dance steps—or not—was one of the many maddening holes in her memory.
Her mother had cautioned against taking this assignment, as if Ellie might forget herself and never return home. Utter nonsense. What Ellie could not forget was how badly their pockets were to let. They could ill afford to turn down money, and this was just a simple ball.
Ellie would stick to the shadows, as always, and hopefully return home overlooked but a few pounds richer. And life would go on as always.
But she couldn’t stop the traitorous voice inside her head from whispering, Look at me; notice me as she stared at Mr. Macane’s devastatingly handsome form.
Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. His attention was on his simpering dance partner.
Chest tight with resentment and envy, Ellie shifted her gaze to the beautiful debutante in his arms, who had thrown herself into the arms of a man she believed deadly. The chit was wealthy and popular—everything Ellie was not.
I hope you fall.
The girl’s legs collapsed beneath her.
Ellie gasped in shock at the coincidence, unconsciously pressing her back against the uneven wall.
Macane extended a graceful hand to the trembling girl at his feet, but his dark gaze focused over her head, as if he could see through the throng and through the shadows, to the young lady trying desperately to melt into the wainscoting.
“You can’t see me. You can’t see me,” Ellie whispered, suddenly and unreasonably terrified.
“He can,” Miss Breckenridge corrected her, her voice faint. “I fear you’ve been marked.”
Ellie’s body fought to free itself from the wall, as if pulled toward him by a force more powerful than her self-control. Every sense, every pore, screamed danger. Her breathing faltered and her heartbeat sped until her only reality was herself... and him.
The melody ended, and a new one began. Without taking his eyes from Ellie, Macane handed the young girl off to her mother and strode forward, his step purposeful, his eyes determined.
Despite the crowd, despite the music, despite her own breath rasping loudly in her ears, from across the ballroom she could clearly hear him speak his first word of the evening.
“You.”
And then he pounced.
Chapter 2
Without seeing Macane cross the dance floor, without any memory of peeling herself from the far wall, their shadows intertwined and those eerily beautiful green eyes were piercing her to her soul.
“I—” Ellie faltered, unsure what she’d meant to say, or whether there was anything to say.
He frowned, which only served to unnerve her even more. “You’re not?—”
“I forgot to make introductions,” gasped Miss Breckenridge, at Ellie’s shoulder. “Of course. Mr. Macane, allow me the honor of presenting Miss Elspeth Ramsay. Miss Ramsay, this is Mr. Mártainn Macane.”
Yes. Obviously. But all Ellie could do was stare up at him, enthralled by the tiny crease between his brows, as if he were as puzzled as she was to find herself the object of his attention.
Who had he thought she was?
