She noticed his lingering gaze while he spoke to Tessa and still felt his presence after he left, realizing she could not deny the mutual tension any longer.
It unsettled her how often her thoughts strayed to him, how vividly she could recall the sound of his voice, the heat of his body when he stood too close, the restraint in his hands that spoke of a carefully controlled strength. Desire curled low in her belly, and she pressed a hand there as though she might still it by force, hating herself for the want and fearing it in equal measure.
Madeline listened to the city breathe around her. The distant sounds of life carried on without regard for her fear or her longing, and she wondered how long she could continue to pretend that this arrangement was sustainable, that proximity would not eventually give way to something far more perilous.
“Smile,” Henry murmured through the side of his mouth. “You look as though you’re attending your own execution.”
Wilhelm did not glance at him as they stood just inside the ballroom, the swell of voices and music washing over them in a tide of silk and perfume and expectation. “I am smiling,” he replied, his jaw set, the expression on his face something carefully assembled rather than felt.
Henry snorted softly. “If that is a smile, I pity your mirrors.”
Wilhelm ignored him. His attention was already being claimed whether he wished it or not. The room had noticed him the moment he entered. Ladies turned with practiced timing, eyes lifting, fans pausing mid-motion, conversations stalling just long enough for his presence to register.
He approached the first one within moments.
“Wilhelm Arden, Duke of Kirkford,” Wilhelm inclined his head, executing the exchange with the smooth efficiency he had honed over years of such encounters. “I do not believe we have met.”
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying with precision, her gown a shimmering pale blue that caught the candlelight. Her smile widened. “Lady Fenwick. It is an honor.”
They spoke of weather, the Season, and of mutual acquaintances whose names meant nothing to him beyond obligation. He listened, responded, nodded at the appropriate moments, aware of her gaze lingering on his mouth, his hands, the line of his shoulders. She laughed a little too quickly at things that were not amusing and leaned a fraction closer than necessary.
And all the while, his mind betrayed him.
Madeline would never laugh like that, he thought, unbidden.
Her amusement was quieter, earned. When she smiled, it was as though she had decided to allow it, not because it was expected of her. Her gowns were modest, practical, chosen for movement rather than display, and yet he could recall with brutal clarity the way fabric clung to her when she bent over Tessa’s lessons, the way the wool of her cloak had outlined her shape in the snow.
“Your Grace?” Lady Fenwick prompted.
“Yes,” Wilhelm replied, dragging his attention back with effort.
She touched his sleeve lightly, as though testing how many liberties she might take. “Perhaps you would care to dance?”
The music swelled, a lively set that encouraged movement and closeness alike.
“I do not dance,” Wilhelm said.
Her smile did not falter. “Perhaps just one, then.”
He could have agreed. It would have been easy. Yet even as he considered it, the image of Madeline by the fire rose unbidden, book in hand, her voice low and expressive, her body relaxed in a way it never was in company. The thought burned in his chest.
“I fear I must decline,” he said.
Lady Fenwick blinked, surprised, then recovered with admirable speed. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
She withdrew, and another took her place not a minute later. Then another. Brunettes, blondes clustered around him. Their laughter was sharp with ambition or softened with practiced gentleness. Each one assessed him with open interest, which he didn’t seem to reciprocate much more than the bounds of politeness.
None of them would kneel in the snow without hesitation, skirts forgotten, simply because it made Tessa laugh. None of them carried fear beneath their composure in a way that sharpenedhis instincts, that made him want to shield and hold her all at once.
Henry leaned close again after the third conversation ended. “You are offending half the room.”
“I am surviving it,” Wilhelm replied.
Henry studied him, his expression sobering. “You are thinking of her.”
Wilhelm’s jaw flexed. “Do not start.”
