“Halfway there,” Nicholas murmured, attempting cheer. Sebastian gave him a faint nod, guilt tugging at him. Nicholas did not deserve to be dragged into such unpleasantness.
They entered the outskirts of the city. Shutters were drawn against the winter night, only faint candlelight showing in the poorest homes. Nearing Kensington, the streets grew brighter, and traffic thickened. Their coach halted repeatedly to let others pass, each pause eliciting a fresh sigh of annoyance from their mother.
At last, they arrived at Lady Evandale’s townhouse. Sebastian stepped out, mind drifting to a puzzling question Nicholas had mentioned from a Royal Society article. The mental distraction was welcome; it nearly made him forget where he was.
He turned back and reached up to hand his mother down from the coach.
“A fine evening,” she murmured as he took her hand, covered with a white opera glove, and escorted her up the stairs towards the building. Nicholas followed them, and Sebastian bowed low as he greeted his host.
“Good evening, your Grace,” Lady Evandale murmured.
Lady Evandale and his mother talked politely for a moment, and then he and his mother moved down the stairs towards the ballroom, Nicholas following them.
“That was not too awful,” Nicholas murmured as they walked across the stone floor of the ballroom. Sebastian tilted his head back, staring up at the high ceiling, lit with many crystal-decorated chandeliers.
“No, it was not,” he agreed.
Strangely, no one seemed too aware of the scandal—at least, Lady Evandale did not. He would have expected her to be looking oddly at him, at the very least. But she had acted as though nothing was untoward.
Sebastian shrugged, attempting to put the matter from his mind. He walked the room slowly, his disinterested gaze taking in the guests, the trestle tables of refreshments, the dark-clad musicians still setting out their musical score on the stands in the corner. It was an ordinary ball, although the setting was rather magnificent, he had to admit. Evandale House was over a hundred years old and was built in the grand style of a bygone age. The ceiling was high, the floor marble-tiled. Stone pillars held up the back wall, where the ballroom, with its vastly high ceiling, had been built onto the rest of the house.
As Sebastian stood there, his gaze indifferent as he took in the guests standing near the musicians’ music-stands—someone caught his eye.
A young woman stood partially concealed in the shadow of a pillar, as though hoping to go unnoticed. Her brown hair gleamed with hints of auburn in the candlelight, and her white gown lent her an air of quiet radiance. Something about her posture—shy, self-effacing, sweetly modest—held him fast.
And then recognition struck him like a blow.
It washer—the young woman from outside the milliner’s shop.
The one who had saved his life.
His breath shortened; his pulse throbbed. She was alone, simply observing the ballroom with the same wary attention he had been giving it. Heat surged through him, impossible to master, and he could not look away.
She lifted a hand to toy with a stray curl, twisting it absently around her gloved finger. Her white elbow-length gloves made her hands appear all the more delicate—hands he longed to take into his own, to feel the faint pressure of her fingers against his palm. There was something defenceless in her gentle carriage, something that stirred every protective instinct he possessed.
He watched her a moment longer—long enough for resolve to gather.
Then, with a sudden surge of boldness, he crossed the room toward her.
Chapter Six
Evelyn stared at the gentleman lingering at the edge of the crowd near the dance floor. He was watching her—directly, intently—in a way that made her cheeks warm and her heartbeat quicken, a hush of heat unfurling low in her belly, unfamiliar and utterly improper.
He was very tall, dark-haired, and dressed in a black tailcoat that emphasised the breadth of his shoulders. His legs, strong beneath his black knee-breeches, carried a posture that commanded attention without the smallest hint of showiness.
It’s him,she thought, heart thudding against her ribcage.The man from the street. The Duke.
She had thought of him more often than she cared to admit. Yet the notion that she mighttrulysee him again had felt inconceivable. A person as illustrious as the Duke of Brentfield—she knew his name, at least, after reading the article—moved in circles far above her own. And she had been sure, too, that being excluded from any events in the future, because of the scandal, would ensure that she would never actually see him. She had forgotten that Lady Evandale’s circle included all manner of people, from wealthy industrialists and bluestockings to the very highest of nobility.
She allowed herself one quick glance at him—too quick—and dropped her gaze again as her cheeks burned. His focus did not drift; his eyes held hers, intent, searching. The moment their gazes met, a slow pulse began at her throat. Shecould notlook away.
He crossed the room toward her.
She retreated half a step into the alcove, shyness mingling with a warm, trembling anticipation that she did not understand and could hardly endure. Her muslin skirts whispered aroundher ankles as she moved; she fixed her eyes desperately on the floor.
“Good evening,” a low, resonant voice said.
She lifted her gaze. Her breath caught. The Duke stood before her, his handsome, severe features unreadable, his blue eyes fixed on hers. His dark hair was a touch longer than fashion dictated—a choice she found unexpectedly appealing.
