Stepping back, she folded her hands, her eyes softening. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she said with quiet conviction.
I attempted a laugh, though it sounded strained. “Do I? I feel more like a girl bound for her first ball.”
“You will dazzle them,” Tilly replied.
A knock sounded at the door. One of our footmen. “His Grace, the Duke of Steele, and Lady Lavinia Thornburn have arrived, my lady. They’ve been shown to the drawing room.”
My breath caught. For the briefest instant, I considered begging another few minutes, if only to quiet the wild flutter in my chest. But it was too late for nerves now. I drew on my gloves and hung the reticule around my wrist while Tilly fetched my wrap and settled it about my shoulders.
Leaving the sanctuary of my chamber, I stepped into the hush of the stairwell where the sconces cast long shadows across the paneled walls. With one hand resting on the banister, I descended slowly, my heart keeping a far quicker pace than my measured steps.
At the foot of the staircase, Honeycutt inclined his head in silent acknowledgment and turned to lead the way. After he announced me, I took a deep breath and stepped into the drawing room.
My gaze went to Steele first. How could it not? He was dressed in evening black, the austerity of his coat and waistcoat only heightening the breadth of his shoulders. I had not seen him since our last investigation concluded, and the sight of him standing there—so assured, so very himself—set my pulse into a most inconvenient race. His gaze caught mine, steady andintent, as though the days between us had been nothing more than a breath.
Remembering myself, I dropped a graceful curtsy. “Your Grace.”
He returned it with a bow. “Lady Rosalynd, may I present my aunt, Lady Lavinia Thornburn.”
“Lady Lavinia,” I replied, curtsying to her as well. “You do me honor with your visit.”
“It is I who am honored, my dear,” she said, her voice low and warm.
Steele’s aunt was a woman of perhaps sixty, her silver hair arranged with immaculate precision, secured by jet combs that caught the lamplight. Her gown of dove-grey silk was cut with simple elegance, adorned only by a small diamond brooch at her throat. Yet it was not her appearance that struck me most, but her manner. Where I had half-feared hauteur, I found only a gentle smile and eyes softened by genuine kindness. She carried herself with the calm assurance of her birth, but without a trace of condescension.
“I have long wished to make your acquaintance. My nephew has spoken of you with the highest regard.”
Heat pricked at my cheeks, though I managed a steady smile. “You are most welcome to Rosehaven House.”
Lady Lavinia’s eyes swept over me with kind approval. “And how charming you look this evening—midnight blue becomes you beautifully. I daresay the theatre will be quite outshone.” She gave a soft laugh, her manner so easy that the last of my nerves eased.
I dared a glance at Steele. He stood a little apart, his gaze fixed upon me, his mouth curved in the faintest of smiles—warm, unguarded, meant for me alone.
“I fear I am a poor hostess,” I said, recovering myself. “May I offer you a glass of sherry before we set out?”
Lady Lavinia’s smile deepened. “How thoughtful, my dear, but I shall not impose. We mustn’t keep the carriage waiting. The horses get restless if still for too long. And I do find the theatre more diverting on an empty palate.”
Steele gave a faint huff of amusement. “You see why I never dare argue with my aunt, Rosalynd. Shall we?” He extended his arm.
I laid my gloved hand upon it, and the three of us left the drawing room. As we stepped out into the night, Lady Lavinia followed at a composed pace. The lamps in Steele’s carriage gleamed against black-lacquered panels as a footman held open the door. It was only then I noted the absence of the ducal crest. The carriage was a plain, unmarked one—not Steele’s familiar equipage. Handsome enough, yet discreet to the point of anonymity. Trust Steele to squash Society’s curiosity before a wheel had even turned.
He handed his aunt inside, then assisted me with the same steady care. Once he joined us, the carriage rolled into motion.
At the Lyceum, our entrance drew every eye. So much for him seeking anonymity. But it was only to be expected given who he was. Whispers rippled behind gloved hands as we ascended the carpeted staircase, Steele’s height and bearing marking us out whether he wished it or not.
As we settled into the sanctuary of the Duke of Steele’s box, the weight of a hundred curious gazes pressed in on us. Steele leaned close, his voice pitched low. “Intrusive lot, aren’t they? I hope their scrutiny isn’t too intolerable.”
I turned my head, our gazes meeting in the half-light. Amusement tugged at me despite myself, tempered by the weary knowledge that Society would never stop staring. “You’re worth it, Your Grace.”
Something darkened in his eyes at my words. His gaze dropped, lingering a fraction too long on my mouth, and in thatinstant, I knew precisely what he wished. My breath caught, memory tugging me back to Lady Findley’s library and the kisses that unsettled us both.
Before I entirely lost myself to that recollection, the house lights dimmed, conversation ebbed to a hush, and the curtain swept upward to claim the crowd’s attention.
The Dead Heart. Even the title sent a shiver through me. Within moments, the stage was awash with revolution, whispered plots, and cries for liberty. The tale promised treachery, sacrifice, and the guillotine—grim fare for a late spring’s evening. Yet I found myself leaning forward, caught by the raw passion of it and the shadow of violence crouching behind the romance.
When Act I ended, Steele rose, offering me his arm. “A turn about the corridors?”
Accepting his offer, my glove brushed the fine cloth of his sleeve. Lady Lavinia followed, her eyes alight with quiet amusement as we joined the throng in the corridor.
