A gentleman lingered on the edge of the circle of onlookers, his gaze fixed unflinchingly upon Cynthia.
He was tall and broad shouldered—his demeanor carrying with it the suggestion of confidence and restraint. Though his tone had been subdued, there had been an inescapable power behind the words, the sort that tolerated no dissent.
Cynthia blinked, surprised. “Your Grace?—”
But Kitty did not pause to learn the conclusion.
Her heart pounding, she whirled on her heel and ran.
The night air stroked her like a salve, the hot suffocating atmosphere of the ballroom left behind the instant she stepped outdoors. The flagstone patio stretched out before her, lit by the soft gleam of lanterns, the sky above a huge expanse of dark velvet.
She inhaled deeply, filling her chest with the cool, untainted air. The distant hum of music and shouts from the ballroom seemed far away now, dampened by the stillness of the evening.
For one moment, she simply stood, letting the desolation soothe her frayed nerves.
She had been unusual. Again.
Kitty placed her hands against the railing, her head tipped back up toward the stars. This wasn’t how this night was supposed to go. She had figured to be watched, but she had not thought that she would be providing them with information so willingly.
Cynthia had played her perfectly.
The night breeze touched her hot, flushed cheeks, reminding her of the heat caused by the mortification.
A tiny mistake. Nothing more.
Not something she could not forget. She had endured much more shameful embarrassments on her travels—this was merely a lesson in English society’s cruel games. She stiffened her shoulders, vowing to herself that she would return inside with her dignity intact.
A sound from behind her—a footstep—had her whipping around, with a racing heart.
Someone had followed her out.
As she turned, a figure emerged from the shadows.
He was standing close—too close.
The garden’s lamplight flickered across his face, turning his features sharp and strange. Leaves rustled above them, whispering in the hush, and Kitty felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said, stepping into her space with an ease that chilled her. “I am the Marquess of Grewin. And you are the sensational newcomer, Miss McGowan—though if we’re being informal, as I hear you prefer… Kitty, is it?”
Kitty took a quick step back, only to find her heel sinking slightly into the soft earth. “Excuse me,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I was just returning to the ballroom.”
“Why hurry?” he asked smoothly. “You left the party. Surely you meant to be found.”
“I didn’t,” she replied, backing away again. Her shoulder brushed a hedge. The lantern’s glow dimmed behind a curtain of leaves. “Please, let me pass.”
He reached for her then, gloved fingers grazing her arm. “You’re very lovely when you’re nervous. Do you know that?”
She tried to twist away, heart hammering, but he grabbed her wrist. Not hard—yet—but firm enough to still her.
“Unhand me.”
“Come now, don’t be shy. I know your type?—”
“Let me go!” She struggled, planting her other hand against his chest and shoving. He didn’t move. Her breath came faster. She tried to scream, but nothing came out but a startled gasp.
And then suddenly—he was gone.
The man stumbled sideways into the shrubs with a grunt. A new figure had emerged between them—taller, darker, silent. He stood like a wall of black stone, his presence swallowing the garden’s quiet.
