Bishop blinked a few times at her question, his gaze turning to her, noting her soft smile. Then he barked out a laugh. “Meet him? Such boldness, Liss.”
She shrugged. “Ah, well, we are here, are we not?”
God, he loved her.
He expected anger, fury, rage, but none came. They were all washed away with that simple question. Bishop was deuced tempted. He had no doubt his uncle would recognize them both. However, he had to be smart. Marching up to the man would put him on instant guard and even allow him to put a tail on them.
He couldn’t allow that.
His whole body rebelled at the thought of Alyssia coming within arm’s reach of the man.
He had to hand it to his uncle, though. The man had bollocks as hard as rock.
“No, let us not sully our evening in such a fashion.”
She leaned into him. “But should we try to get closer? Eavesdrop?”
“No, Liss. I’m already regretting coming to this ball.”
“Why?” she asked, concern lighting her gaze.
He admitted, “I believed we’d be fine with masks, but I feel even more exposed. Like I stepped into a trap.”
She nodded. “Let us leave then.” She squeezed his arm. “Together.”
Ah, Liss. “Always.”
Who’d have thought the worst was yet to come?
Chapter Thirteen
Alyssia thought shemight agree with Giles. Perhaps they shouldn’t have come.
Sometimes the best intentions could meet the cruelest timing and tonight seemed determined to prove it. What had begun as curiosity and courage now pressed on her chest like a warning. Ironic, truly, since they shouldn’t be surprised, or caught off guard, by anything that happened here tonight. She’d wanted to face their troubles head-on, but standing there, watching the man who had stolen so much from her husband, she wondered if bravery sometimes meant knowing when to retreat.
Honestly, she even understood why Giles had stayed hidden for so long. There was a peculiar safety in retreating, one she had mistaken for cowardice when they’d reunited in the Lyon’s Den. Now she saw it for what it was: self-preservation. Out here, between the judgmental whispers, every breath felt like exposure. Thetonhad a way of turning truth into spectacle, and spectacle into truth, and she refused to dwell on what it might make of theirs.
Not anymore.
To perdition with them.
She had Giles.
They had one another.
They’d just turned to the entrance hall when she spotted a familiar bounding figure. “Annabelle is here,” she murmured to Giles.
“Shall we greet her before we go?” Giles asked.
She nodded.
Someone brushed past her shoulder with enough force to jar her off balance, and her hand slipped from Giles’s arm. She turned, half expecting to find him still beside her, but only met a wall of shifting people. Where had this crush suddenly come from? She tried to move forward, but the vexing group of people had chosen that spot to settle.
A prickle of unease climbed her spine.
“Giles?” she called softly, but her voice vanished beneath the music and chatter. Foolish. He was likely only a pace beyond her. Still, her pulse quickened. For all her resolve to face the world without flinching, it was remarkably easy to feel small among masked strangers.
Then a hand caught her wrist.
