“Lord Ravenwood,” she replied, her voice soft and clear. Not breathless or coy. Merely…sincere.
Sincerity was a rare commodity. Both dangerous and infuriating for a man such as he. Dash should have offered a bland compliment. He should have asked an inoffensive question and taken his leave. Instead, he said, “Will you stand for the next set with me?”
The duchess stiffened, just a fraction. Lady Lavinia blinked—once, twice—then color warmed her cheeks. Not bold crimson, but a delicate rose, as if she was astonished by his attention. “I…” She glanced, instinctively, to her mother.
The duchess’s gaze moved between them like a blade testing its edge. “Lord Ravenwood is not known for frivolous requests.” The duchess had a strange way of giving her permission…
Dash held her gaze. “Nor am I known for making them without reason. Please do me this honor, my lady.”
It was as close to truth as he could offer without ripping the curtain from the stage. The duchess’s mouth tightened. “Very well. Go enjoy the dance, Vivy.”
Lavinia’s breath seemed to catch—quiet and controlled. Then she offered Dash her hand. When his fingers closed around hers…lightly, as etiquette demanded…Dash felt a jolt of awareness so sharp it nearly unmade his careful composure. Almost as if he recognized where he belonged, and with whom.
She could be used. She could be hurt. She could be taken from this room by a man who did not care that she smiled like sunlight and happiness. Dash guided her toward the dance floor. As they passed, he saw the stranger near the drapes shift—subtle and quick. As if recalculating his strategy.
If the enemy wished to watch, Dash would give him a lesson in misdirection. “Do you dance often, Lord Ravenwood?” Lavinia asked quietly as they took their place, her tone polite, but her curiosity unmistakable.
Dash’s mouth curved faintly. “Only when compelled to.”
Her eyes brightened. “By duty?”
“By necessity,” he corrected.
The orchestra lifted into the first notes of the waltz. Dash placed his hand at her waist, ensuring to be careful as he drew her into the pattern of the dance. She moved with a grace that spoke of countless hours of instruction.
As they spun through the candlelight, Dash tracked the room over her shoulder. Lionston remained near the column, his posture relaxed and his gaze sharp. The stranger had moved. Not closer to the other Ellsworths. No, he had moved closer to the side door. As if preparing to leave or to send word.
Dash’s jaw tightened. He would not be outmaneuvered on a ballroom floor. “Lady Lavinia,” he said softly, timing his words with a turn so no one could read his lips.
“Yes?”
“If I ask you a question,” he murmured, “will you think me rude?”
Her gaze lifted to his, honest and unguarded. “I do not think you are rude, my lord. Only…difficult to read.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “Good,” he said. “Then tell me…have you received any unusual attention of late? Letters you did not expect? Conversations that left you uneasy?”
Her brows drew together. Confusion, then thoughtfulness. “No,” she said slowly. “At least…not that I recall. Why do you ask?”
Because someone is watching you like prey. Because I will not allow it. Because I am a fool. He said instead, “Because I do not like surprises.” It wasn’t really an answer to her question, but he couldn’t tell her the truth.
Her lips softened again. “Nor do I.”
The words should have been nothing. Yet they landed on him like a vow. They completed the turn, the music carrying them onward. After the dance ended, he delivered her back to her mother’s side. He surveyed the room once more and discovered the man had left. He made a decision then with the cold certainty of a man stepping onto a battlefield. He would find out who that stranger was, and he would decipher the missive.
If any man thought to harm Lady Lavinia Ellsworth…they would learn what it meant to provoke the Earl of Ravenwood. Because weakness, once discovered, became either a wound…or a weapon.
And Dash had just chosen which he intended her to be.
Two
Rain had followed them from Whitcombe House like an ill-mannered guest—insistent, uninvited, and determined that they had no choice but to notice it. By the time Vivy stepped down from the carriage at Avonridge House, her slippers threatened mutiny, her hem bore the faintest kiss of London mud, and her thoughts were in far worse disorder than her attire. The lamps in the entry glowed softly and that ought to have soothed her, yet she felt as though she had carried the ballroom’s odd peril home in the folds of her cloak.
She had danced with Lord Ravenwood.
Not merely danced—waltzed, close enough to hear the careful cadence of his breath, close enough to feel the strength in his hand at her waist, and close enough to sense the watchfulness beneath his composure. She still did not understand the purpose of his questions. She had not received anything unexpected. Why would he wonder if she had? Had he sent her something? If so… Her heart leapt inside her chest. Did he remember her from all those years ago when she had fallen at his feet?
She did not know whether to be embarrassed or hopeful for that to be the truth. A part of her wanted him to have thought of her over the years, but the idea of that being the one thing he did recall…well that made the other part of her shudder in horror. She had not made the best of impressions with her clumsiness. Even if he had been kind and attentive.
