From the corner of his eye, he could see the flushed, smiling faces of the younger women—daughters of his father’s noble guests fawning over the sight of him in his green silk-velvet three-piece suit, edged in bronze embroidery. His snug, matching breeches and tight hose drew their eyes to his strong thighs and shapely calves. His raven hair, kept shorter than was the fashion because it was easier to wear it disheveled or spiky, as it was tonight, was waxed and powdered white just beyond his dark roots.
He was the only man at court who wore his natural hair powdered instead of a wig. But Lord Dartmouth was known to be odd and a bit off. He did what he wanted, dressed however he liked, whether his style was in fashion or not. As for his hair, why should he force a tight wig onto his head when he had a perfectly thick head of hair? Sometimes he left it as black as the waters of the Dart Estuary outside the castle, and slicked back, displaying his stark beauty.
He cast the younger ladies a sensual, come-hither look and bit his bottom lip. He beckoned them to him, but none had the courage to step forward. He laughed softly, turning his attention to the disapproving glares of the duke and duchess of Milford, Earl Bixley and his wife, and Earl Swatington. Swatington’s wife was sizing him up like a juicy slab of beef and she had not enjoyed any meat in years.
He was mad. Rebellious. Obsessed with the macabre. Poor duke to have such an heir.
He’d heard it all before and let it bounce off his armor. Two things would happen before this, his stepmother’s first ball of the early spring season was over tonight. First, he would anger and embarrass his father and his father’s wife, and the second, he would enjoy doing it.
He wished the enjoyment would last, but it never did. It was always temporary, momentary, and then the anger and the misery returned. These people had no idea how his dancing kept him sane and all of them unharmed.
No one here would be able to stop him if drew his sword. After years of training for war and then actually fighting one against the French, he knew how to kill, and he knew how to be merciless if necessary.
He spotted Elspeth Gable pretending to find no interest in him while he strode forward. He let his gaze rake over the hall until he found Elspeth’s husband, Harry Gable.
Gray had often thought about killing him. But…he slid his warm gaze back to Elspeth…making Harry’s wife desire him was a far more satisfying revenge.
And so, he kept his eyes on her while he cued the musicians to play the music he had chosen from an Italian composer Francesco Molino. Gray took the liberty of changing the tempo. When the musicians picked up their instruments, the guests gave him the dance floor and he took it.
He leaped high, extending his legs and landing as if he broke all his bones. He stood and bent his arms, swinging them at the elbows. He stepped forward, keeping time with the tempo, hips thrust out, toes pointed. He bent lower and spun on one foot while holding his face in his hands and turning his head as if he might twist it off. His body moved in perfect synchronicity with the music, and while some—including Elspeth Gable—watched him in spellbound awe, most looked away from the grotesque sight.
He caught his father’s eye from where the duke sat at the dais with his wife, Eloise Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. Gray liked his stepmother as much as he liked her son.
His father glared at him across the empty floor. Gray chuckled silently. Was it anything new? No. Every time Gray danced his father cast him murderous looks. Gray didn’t remember a time when he hoped his father would watch him with pride and perhaps a little admiration for his son’s expertise on the dance floor.
Gray had learned every dance there was and practiced the steps until he didn’t have to think about them. But knowing how to dance was one thing; being the best dancer, according to everyone who’d seen him, was another. Even those who didn’t like his unconventional style had to admit Grayson possessed a natural flair that made his body move differently and better than anyone else.
But Thomas Barrington, His Grace the Duke of Devonshire, didn’t agree. He continued to glare.
Gray didn’t care. He continued dancing until his breath came hard, raising his shoulders around his ears. When the musicians began to play an English folk song about a man shooting his neighbor over a spilled drink, Gray danced his sometimes-comedic style of ballet. When the lyrics told of a villain aiming his gun at his neighbor, Gray found Harry Gable again in the crowd. He lifted his index and middle fingers and closed one eye to aim, then fired.
Surrounded by gasps and whispers, Gray lowered his hand and grinned at Harry.
Chapter Two
New York City
Summer 2024
Aria studied threeof her best students while they practiced. Michael’s isolations and gestures were almost perfect, Jake’s lifts and contributions to the choreography were unparalleled, and Brenda—well, she was already the star of the show. The top in her dance class, Brenda Louise Peacock was Blagden’s School of Contemporary Dance’s prima ballerina. But which of the men would Aria send to the next round of auditions? Both were extremely talented, and they shared great potential. Together they were perfect, but individually, they lacked in certain areas. One area was passion. Their facial expressions were wooden.
“Michael,” Aria said sternly, walking toward him, her dance slippers silent on the polished wooden floor, “your breath is off. Fix it. The best of the best will all be there tomorrow, vying for the chance to be Romeo in this production. If you’re content to remain off-Broadway, then don’t do your best.”
He had the gall to smile at her, as if all this was a joke.
“Michael, I wouldn’t mind your arrogance if you had what it took to back it up,” she said wryly. “But you don’t. I’m going to show you.” She cast her cool, blue gaze at Jake and Brenda. “Take five. Not you,” she told Michael when he moved to sit with them. She called to Alexa to play her playlist. She looked in the wall-length mirror, loving this side of it, missing it as if it were her last breath.
She’d rather be dancing than teaching…than anything. But her dancing days were over. She’d had to accept it after the car accident left her close to being unable to walk again, let alone dance. Still, she’d been spared more than her older brother, Connall. More than her father. The money from teaching paid the rent where she lived with her family. She also worked a night job and would get a third job if she had to. They didn’t receive money from the accident since they claimed it was her father’s fault. She would do whatever was needed to help her mother, since her father could no longer do anything but lie in his sickbed.
She pulled her ponytail free, and locks of glossy, chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders almost to her waist.
“I’d rather watch you dance, Ms. Darling,” Michael said dreamily.
She looked at him standing beside her in the mirror. “Keep up with me, or you’re out.”
“C’mon, Ms. Darling,” Michael lamented, sounding younger than his nineteen years. “That’s not fair. No one can keep up with you.”
She bit her lip. Maybe that had been true before the car accident that left her with broken bones everywhere, including a compound break of her tibia that stopped her from pursuing her professional dance career.
