Sabrina’s heart thudded with a dangerous rhythm; one she refused to acknowledge aloud. She straightened her posture, pressing her fan firmly between her fingers as though it could shield her from the truth. I will not give him that power again, she told herself. She had survived heartbreak once; she would not willingly invite it back.
The duke’s gaze lingered on her with a patience and intensity that unsettled her, yet there was no malice there—only something quieter, more potent, something that threatened to unpick all the careful walls she had built around her heart.
“What do you want, Lee?” she asked finally, her voice steadier than she felt. “Haven’t you done enough? You ruined any affection I had for you.”
He gave a short, almost rueful smile. “Perhaps, Sabella, I have not destroyed it entirely. Have I?”
She shook her head, letting out a bitter laugh. “You speak as if you still know me. You don’t. I am my own woman now, and I will not be swayed by words or past affection. Do you understand?”
His expression softened, but the intensity never left his gaze. “I understand,” he murmured, and yet there was a weight in his eyes that suggested he understood far more than she wished he did.
Sabrina felt a shiver trace her spine—not from fear, but from the old, familiar pull, the magnetic current that had drawn her to him once before. She forced herself to turn her attention to the view of the dance floor…to anything but the man who had, against all reason, never truly left her thoughts.
“We cannot go back,” she said, her tone quiet now, almost fragile. “I will not be undone by you again.”
He nodded slowly, as if he accepted her words without argument. “I do not wish to undo you, Sabella. Only to prove that what was never lost can perhaps, in time, be made right.”
Sabrina’s chest tightened at the words, at the promise woven into them, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, allowing herself a single, fleeting acknowledgment of what she felt. Desire, resentment, and the remnants of a love she had never truly abandoned—all tangled together in a knot that threatened to unravel everything she had fought to control. She opened her eyes, firming her resolve. “Do not mistake my silence for submission,” she said, her voice firm. “Whatever remnants of the girl I once was may still linger, they will not rule me now.” She met his gaze, unwavering, and yet a tremor ran through her at the sound of the soft for now. The weight of unspoken possibilities lingered in the room, thick and intoxicating.
The duke’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment, though there was a glimmer in his eyes that betrayed the stirrings of something far deeper. “Very well, Sabella. We will let this rest for now.” He bowed. “I will leave you to your own thoughts but promise me one thing.”
“I will do no such thing,” she scoffed.
“I think you will.” His lips twitched. “Because I do believe, as you are with me, your thoughts are never far from me. So, as you consider our past, and our present, and possibly our future, remember that you do mean a great deal to me. I may have been horrid about expressing it, but it is true. I don’t know what will happen. No one does. But that is and always will be true.” With that he turned and left her alone at the edge of the dance floor.
Sabrina pressed her fan to her lips, forcing herself to breathe steadily. She had survived the first heartbreak. She could survive this tension as well. She must. In the quiet spaces between the words, in the tension that hung between them like a charged wire, she could not help but wonder if she truly wanted to.
Because, despite herself, part of her knew she never had. She very much feared that Leander still owned her heart, and if that was true where did that leave her? Leave them…
The gaslight glimmered softly against the polished floors of Viscount Slothington’s London townhouse, casting long shadows that danced among the elegantly dressed guests. Leander stood near the edge of the ballroom, his gaze sweeping over the room with a calm detachment that belied the tension coiling in his chest. Balls were never his preferred terrain; the frivolity, the chatter, the endless turn of fans and silks—all of it grated on his patience. Yet tonight was necessary, and he had a purpose that demanded he tolerate the world of high society, if only briefly.
He had come for a single reason. A meeting with Viscount Slothington. He was a former operative, reluctant heir, meticulous in every thought and action, and remarkably slow to trust. The man was the sort of recruit the Lion Watch required—methodical, clever, and unflinchingly loyal once convinced. Leander knew the challenge he faced. Slothington would not be won over by charm, nor flattery, nor the simple insistence of duty. Convincing him would require patience, precision, and the ability to speak a language only a man like him could understand.
A faint scent of roses and candle wax hung in the air as Leander observed the crowd, noting the subtle hierarchy of attention, the way certain guests glided through conversation while others lingered awkwardly by the edges. He was not here to mingle. He was here to find the right moment, and the right moment often demanded waiting. He had not been a premier spy for nothing…
And then, as his focus sharpened, he glimpsed a familiar figure across the room. Lady Sabrina Fairfax. Her presence had been a distraction at first, a memory he had not expected to encounter tonight. The memory stirred something he had long kept buried—a brief hesitation that might have cost him more than it should have. He adjusted his posture, reminding himself that distraction, however welcome, was a luxury he could not afford. He could not speak with her again. He had already said too much to her, and yet, not enough. She thought that he had abandoned her easily. That had been the hardest decision he had ever made. Leander had had nothing to offer her then, nor did he now. As much as it pained him, he had cut ties with her so she would be free to find someone else.
But she never had…
What did that say about her? About him? He was secretly glad she had never married or found love with another man. Because he wanted to claim her where he still had no right to. He shouldn’t be following her around the ballroom with a heated gaze, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to, though. He reminded himself of the reason he had come…Slothington. He had gone by Slothy on the Continent. A nod to his title, and his penchant for his methodical and slow actions. He never did anything without considering every angle. Slothy was particular and precise. The perfect operative for Leander’s budding agency.
Leander turned his attention back to the purpose of his visit. Slothington was there, tall, imposing, his black hair perfectly arranged, golden-brown eyes surveying the room with the caution of a man accustomed to measuring every risk. His every movement spoke of discipline, a careful deliberation honed by years of service and responsibility. The viscount did not rush; he did not act without thought. That was precisely why Leander needed him, and it was a much-needed reminder of the mission at hand.
With measured steps, Leander approached the viscount, blending with the ebb and flow of dancers and courtiers, his expression composed, but his mind calculating. Every word, every gesture had to be exact. Slothington’s scrutiny would allow no error. And when the moment came, he would speak with the clarity of purpose, offering a proposition the viscount could not ignore—a chance to join something far greater than mere duty to family or title.
Tonight, Leander reminded himself, the ball was not about the frivolity of silk gowns or candlelit smiles. It was about recruitment, loyalty, and the kind of trust that could change the course of unseen wars. And he would have Slothington’s attention, whether the man intended to give it or not. It was time to act.
Leander made is way toward the viscount and slid into the space unoccupied beside him. “Slothy,” he greeted.
The viscount narrowed his gaze. “Lionston,” he said, in reference to Leander’s new title. “I didn’t expect you would attend this.” He gestured toward the crowd. “I wouldn’t be here if my mother didn’t demand I host the bloody thing.” He rolled his eyes. “But apparently my sister wishes to wed, and I must facilitate that desire by any means at my disposal.”
“I think I may be glad I don’t have a sister,” Leander drawled.
“Be grateful you don’t,” Slothington said in a bored tone. “Why are you here.”
He wasn’t up to small talk. Well that worked for Leander too. “I have a proposal I think that might interest you.”
Slowly, the viscount turned his gaze to meet Leander’s. A slow smile formed on his face and Leander almost returned that smile. Because he knew in that moment there would be no need for convincing. Slothy was already intrigued and that was half the battle. “Then follow me, Your Grace. I have a feeling this is a conversation best had in private.”
