The operative he had chosen was competent—better than competent—but even the most skilled man could not uncover secrets a woman was determined to bury. And Sabrina was nothing if not determined.
She always had been. He lifted the missive once more and read it over. There was one piece of information to be had from his operative’s report. Sabrina had paid a call on Miss Sedgewick. That in itself wasn’t newsworthy, but it may give him something to go forward with. Miss Sedgewick was Viscount Slothington’s sister, and it was possible that Slothy had been privy to the visit. Perhaps the viscount could give him some insight. It was unlikely, but at least it was something…
He exhaled slowly, trying—and failing—to ease the tension from his shoulders. His gaze drifted toward the window, where the late afternoon sun cast long amber streaks over the polished floorboards. The Whitmore crest glimmered faintly in the corner of his eye, embossed onto the invitation lying on his desk.
The Whitmore’s annual ball was that evening. He had been debating whether or not he would attend. He had wanted to. But he wasn’t sure he should go at all. Sabrina would not appreciate his attendance at her family’s ball. She was the reason he wanted to attend, but perhaps it was more than that. He needed to be there. He could not stay away from her for any reason. Even the strongest objections would be set aside because of that need to be near her. How had he stayed away from her for so many years? Apparently, proximity was all it took for him to forget good sense.
Leander picked up the invitation to the ball and turned it between his fingers. He would accept it. The ball would be important for him to attend. It was a good place for a clandestine meeting or two. Something he would take advantage of—something he had always planned on using. But now… now the invitation carried a different weight, an irresistible pull.
She would be there.
He cursed under his breath as the truth settled over him like an unwelcome cloak. He could stay away from danger, from intrigue, from a thousand political storms—but he had never once managed to stay away from his Sabella. Not as long as they were this close together. She may have thought he had forgotten her, but he never had. He had stayed away from her to protect her. Because the work he did would only put her in danger, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause her any sort of harm.
He loved her. He had always loved her. He had just never told her that. She was his everything. She had the uncanny ability to look right through him—to look at him then with those clear, assessing eyes and see all his carefully hidden secrets. She alone could see beneath the layers he carefully hid from the world. How had she never uncovered his biggest secret? Did she suspect what he felt for her?
He had always been drawn to her. Against reason. Against caution. Against his own better judgment and now she was hiding something… something that placed her in his thoughts far too often, in ways he could not permit. He had to discover the truth. He had to protect her.
Leander walked over to the bar on the far side of the room and filled a tumbler with two fingers of brandy. He lifted it up to his mouth and tossed back a swallow of the amber liquid, the heat doing little to steady him. He had a lot to consider, and no answers. He would have it all that night. She would tell him what he needed to know whether she liked it or not. He suspected she would fight him on every front, but he was prepared for that inevitability. His decision was made.
Very well. “Have it your way, Sabella,” he muttered to himself.
He would attend the Whitmore ball. He would speak to her again. He would watch her, closely, until her secret revealed itself—whether through a slip of her tongue, a betrayal of expression, or a truth she could no longer hold inside.
And, if he were honest with himself… he simply needed to see her.
Leander folded the missive, tucked it away in a drawer in his desk, and sighed. He straightened to his full height, resolve cooling the heat in his blood. If Sabella believed she could hide from him?—
she was gravely mistaken. He would have the truth. He would do what was best for her. He could never allow anything to befall her. It would destroy him if she were ever harmed.
He strode from the desk to the window, his fingers tightening behind his back as he stared out into the dimming twilight. The grounds of his London home stretched before him, quiet and deceptively calm—nothing like the turmoil churning inside his chest. A man such as he was not meant to feel so… unmoored. He was a creature of logic, calculation, and strategy. He commanded rooms, negotiations…without faltering.
But Sabrina unraveled him with a single glance. It infuriated him. It humbled him. God help him, it compelled him. He dragged a hand through his hair and released a sharp breath. He ought to leave her well enough alone. A wiser man would. But he had never claimed to be wise where she was concerned.
She was hiding something. His every instinct screamed that at him. He saw it in the tension she carried in her shoulders, in the faint tremor in her hands when she believed no one was watching. And he had watched—too closely, too often since he first laid eyes upon her again. She was in danger of some sort.
He could not prove it. He did not yet know from what source it came. But he felt it—like a storm building on the horizon, its distant rumble warning of a coming downpour. Sabrina was at the center of it, and she believed she had to weather it alone.
Foolish woman.
His jaw flexed. He tossed back the rest of his brandy and placed the glass down more forcefully than necessary. If she would not confide in him willingly, then he would extract the truth by other means—gentle ones, if possible; ruthless ones, if required. He would not stand idle while shadows gathered around her. He had lost too much already. He would not lose her.
At the Whitmore Hall, he would have answers. And Sabella… she would no longer evade him with pretty smiles and graceful retreat. He would corner her if needed. He would force her to look at him and—just once—see that she was not the only one carrying secrets.
Because if he was not careful, the truth inside him would spill free. That he loved her. That he always had. That every step she took away from him felt like an ache beneath his ribs. That he would burn down kingdoms before he allowed harm to come to her.
Leander turned from the window, resolve settling over him like armor. Yes, he would go to the Whitmore ball. He would uncover the danger she feared and he would protect her—whether she wanted him to or not.
For if Sabella believed she could keep her secrets…she had underestimated the one man in England who would give his very soul to untangle them.
He had to keep her safe. Whatever the cost.
The preparations for the ball were enough to drive any sensible woman to distraction, yet Sabrina found her thoughts wandering far from the placement of flowers or the proper polishing of the ballroom chandeliers. Footmen swept past in hurried strides, maids carried armfuls of linens, and all around her, the house shook itself into the glittering spectacle expected of the Earl of Whitmore’s daughter.
But none of it mattered at the moment. She stood at the center of the grand ballroom, surveying the space with a critical eye, though her attention fluttered restlessly. The chandeliers sparkled like captured stars, and the marble floor gleamed in anticipation of hundreds of dancing slippers. Everything was perfect.
Everything had to be perfect.
For somewhere amid the guests soon to fill this room would be the villain bold enough to blackmail her brother. Tonight, the truth would be laid bare or so she prayed… She had to discover what her brother had done that would ruin them all. Time was running out, and she feared what would happen if anyone discovered what Basil had done.
