His lips moved, curving.
That smile.
She would know it anywhere, even if there was a hardness to it now.
“Where are your impeccable manners, Duchess?” he asked.
He was taunting her, playing at a game she did not fully comprehend. “Forgive me, Mr. Hastings. When uninvited strangers find their way into my ball, I am afraid my etiquette flees.”
“As I told you, I was invited.”
“By whom?” she demanded. “I know of no Mr. Adrian Hastings.”
“But youdoknow a mutual friend.” The smile remained, but there was an icy edge in his voice.
She drew nearer, the rich scent of his shaving soap reaching her. The same. So much about this man was the same. Hauntingly similar.
Tilly stopped before him, hands clasped at her waist. “What is this mutual friend’s name?”
“Robin Carstairs.”
How well she recalled the day she had first heard that name. Even now, hearing it made her flinch. Her reaction was visceral. Painful.
“He did not receive an invitation to the ball,” she forced past her numb lips.
His smile turned into a sneer. “But did you not once tell him he would forever be welcome in your home and in your bed?”
The words were akin to a slap to her cheek. She had spoken those words to Robin. She had meant them.
“In your heart, as well,” he added.
The room felt suddenly small. A prison, secured around her.
“Remove the mask,” she repeated, her voice hoarse.
She felt as if she were made of glass. One false move, and she would shatter.
“I want you to beg,” he said. “You are excellent at it, as I recall. Especially when you want something badly enough.”
Beg me, Tilly. Beg me to make love to you.
The memory of those wicked words, of everything he had said to her, everything they had done together, returned.
She snapped.
Tilly reached for the mask, clawing at it, tearing at the silken scrap. It fell down his face, catching on his chin with an effect that would have been comical indeed had her heart not been breaking.
“Robin,” she gasped.
It was undeniable. The face staring back at her, bereft of the barrier of his mask, revealed the stark truth.
* * *
Here wasthe moment he had been waiting for. The moment he had dreamt of for so many bitter, dark nights. The moment that had kept him alive when he should have died. The promise of retribution loomed clear and beautiful as the Duchess of Longleigh’s brilliant emerald eyes.
Why did she insist on clinging to this pretense? Did she think him stupid? Or worse, weak? Mayhap he had been once. Now, no longer.
All thanks to her and her ruthless manipulations.
