The room turned. Caution loosened. His mask tipped as though studying her mouth. “A pity about midnight,” he said. “Mysteries rarely survive it.”
“Some do,” she replied, though her pulse contradicted her.
He dipped her, expertly, deliberately, just enough to steal her breath and give it back. “Are you always so cavalier with ladies’ hearts?” she asked when he set her upright.
“Only when invited.”
The final chord lingered. Applause swelled and faded to a hum she scarcely heard over the thrum in her veins.
He leaned so close that his words brushed her ear. “The conservatory. Ten minutes.”
Her answer was a nod she felt rather than made. The corridor beyond the ballroom lay dim and cool, an invitation in shadow. Helena paused at the threshold, breath quick, and asked herself if she meant to be the heroine of her own story.
She stepped forward.
One waltz. One kiss. No regrets. She reminded herself. This was, after all, what she had come for.
William Atteberry, Duke of Powis, had always preferred to believe his composure was inherited, for Atteberrys did not lose their heads, even in private. In truth, it was a discipline. Detachment kept the world tidy, and he preferred order. He had entered the masquerade wrapped in it. His black velvet coat fitted to austerity, linen starched to an edge, every button an assertion that he would not be moved.
His mask was a minimalist black domino, matte and severe, as if carved from the night. It hid nothing of his jaw or mouth, only distilled him. Powis without daylight’s courtesies.
From the threshold, he had surveyed the room. Light, music, bodies colliding—others found it cacophony. He found patterns. Laughter rose and thinned, tides of interest pulled and slackened, small dramas rippled at the edges. A jilted lover guarding the punch bowl, two young men vanishing behind a curtain, a battle-hardened matron interrogating the pastry table.
He had come with a purpose, a dare issued at White's, lubricated by claret and boredom. Before midnight, identify the most intriguing stranger, secure her name, and, if she wished, a kiss. He accepted with indifference and a private certainty of victory. He was good at detection, better at seduction.
He had begun a circuit. Costumes were clever. Masks exquisite. The faces beneath them were the usual mix of need and performance. He’d cataloged. He’d dismissed.
And then—the fox in crimson. A keen strike of interest he had not felt in years. Words had been exchanged. Heat had followed. A waltz, and now the only portion of the wager that mattered waited in the hush beyond the glass.
The conservatory breathed damp and green, windows pearled with condensation, orchids exhaling a faint sweetness. The ball’s noise dulled to a heartbeat behind panes. She stood there already, the fox’s gilt catching lamplight. They were close without touching, the quiet suddenly urgent.
She lifted her chin first. “No names until midnight. One kiss.”
He inclined his head. “Only if you wish. I do not play games women do not want.”
Something in her eased. Something in him did too.
“Very well,” she said. “A kiss, then. For the science of omens.”
He stepped in as if approaching the edge of a familiar precipice and discovered the ground was not where he remembered it. The first brush of her mouth was a question. He answered, deepened, and waited for refusal that did not come. She rose into him with ferocious grace, her hands at his collar—the rasp of linen at his throat—body a warm, urgent confession. He mapped the long line of her back, the hidden tremor at the base of her spine. She nipped his lower lip, claim and caution in one, and he laughed softly against her mouth, undone.
They parted on a mutual drag of breath.
“That,” she said, fingers ghosting her lips, “will be remembered.”
“By me,” he said, too honestly, “for a very long time.”
The first chime rolled through the house.
She reached for her ribbons. He stilled her wrist—not to stop her, only to steady both of them—then removed his hand. She untied the fox as he slid the domino free. For a heartbeat, the world held.
His gaze slid over her. She was an ethereal beauty, with dark brown hair cascading in soft waves down her back, complementing her sultry eyes that seemed to hold a world of secrets. Her poised demeanor accentuated by high cheekbones and a graceful neck, lending full breasts. She bore an air of regal elegance that made him want to posses her even as recognition dawned.
“Lady Helena Fairfax,” he said, the name arriving unbidden and irrevocable.
"Powis." Her eyes widened, and her breath caught on a shocked, incredulous laugh. Then, quieter, “Good God.”
The second chime struck, then the third. Edmund’s widow—his cousin's widow. The knowledge landed with the peculiar clarity of cold water. Still, desire did not recede. It steadied.
