But her friend’s warning had already confirmed the prickle at the back of her neck. Eyes.Hiseyes. Following her through the crowd.
She could feel him. Not see, butfeel.
She forced herself to smile at a passing acquaintance, murmured something polite, and let her friends guide her further into the room. She would not look. She would not give Victor the satisfaction of thinking he still affected her.
He had made his position painfully clear.
This was an arrangement, nothing more.
Gwen lifted her chin, but her heart twisted traitorously in her chest.
Eleanor paused to greet someone, leaving Gwen and Arabella briefly alone. Gwen took the opportunity to slip behind acolumn, pretending to adjust her glove while using the marble pillar as a shield.
“Cowardice does not suit you,” Arabella whispered.
“I am not hiding,” Gwen muttered.
“You are hiding quite thoroughly,” Arabella countered. “And poorly.”
Before Gwen could retort, a low, familiar voice cut through the din behind her. “Lady Gwendoline.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
Slowly, she turned around.
Victor stood only a few feet away, immaculate in black and white, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. Handsome. Severe. Impossible to ignore. His expression was unreadable, too controlled, yet something taut lingered beneath the surface.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, curtsying gracefully.
Arabella shot her a pointed look, mouthed a frantic good luck, and vanished into the crowd with suspicious speed.
Victor stepped closer. “You are avoiding me.”
“I am not,” Gwen said. Her voice was calm, but her pulse was riotous. “I am attending a ball, Your Grace. I cannot avoid guests I have not spoken to.”
He studied her with unsettling focus. “I would speak to you.”
Gwen lifted her fan. A flimsy shield. “We are at a public event. Perhaps another time.”
“No,” he insisted. “Tonight.”
Her body tensed. She wished he looked bored. She wished he looked indifferent. Anything but the cool, unyielding intent in his eyes.
“I do not think that would be wise,” she cautioned.
“We have little time left,” he said quietly.
The reminder struck her like a blow.
Seven nights. She had given him three. Four, if the night at the lodge counted. The remaining ones unfurled ahead of her like fate already written.
Her stomach twisted.
He added, “Meet me tonight.”
It was neither a request nor a plea. It was a command, softened only by the faintest hint of something beneath it. Something she did not trust herself to name.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
