One
“Is that the Duke of Westvale?”
“It can’t be…”
“It is. The scar on his face… it must be him.”
“What is he doing here?”
“I thought he died…”
“I heard the king ordered him never to leave his estate…”
“And for good reason. I mean, look at him…”
The not-so-subtle whispers hounded His Grace, Ronan Ward, the Duke of Westvale, as he skulked into the grand ballroom. This was the first time he had been seen in a public setting like this for close to ten years. They came from everywhere,seemingly all sets of tongues wagging and all eyes turning to watch him as if a ghost was emerging before their very eyes.
And if not a ghost, a demon. I am half tempted to snarl and snap at them, confirming the rumors because their minds are already made up. At least doing so will keep them from approaching me.
It was the Winthrope Ball that Ronan was attending. An offer had been extended by its host, and had been accepted by him not because he was struck by a sudden yearning to socialize and engage with his fellow lords, but because he’d had no choice. Times were not what they once were, and even a man as stubborn as Ronan was forced to compromise when he would have very much preferred to stay at home.
He walked with his shoulders hunched, a sneer on his lips as he moved through the crowds, all of which parted for him as if on instinct, as if to get too close might see danger fall upon their shoulders.
But while they were happy to give him space and avoid his gait, they were just as happy to stare and mutter beneath their breaths. Such was his reception that Ronan was certain a few ladies even cried out as if from shock.
None of this bothered Ronan. In fact, he preferred it. When Lady Winthrope extended him the invitation for tonight’s affair, Ronan’s only goal was to be seen. A goal well achieved, in his estimation.
To remind my peers that I do indeed exist. That despite what might be said of the Westvale name, it has not died an ignominious death and it will not be forgotten.
So it was that he moved through the ballroom like a ghoul, sticking to the edges and happy to be avoided by the women dressed in their colorful gowns and the men decked out in their smart suits. People watched him. People spoke behind hands. But none dared to get too near…
Or rather, that was the case, until Ronan spied through the masses a smiling face and sparkling eyes of joy, fixed upon him as their owner laughed in a way that most would not dare to do in his presence.
“If I did not see it with my own eyes…” His Grace, Alaric Wolfe, the Duke of Ravencourt, beamed as he emerged from the crowd. “I dare say I would not have believed it.”
“Alaric,” Ronan grunted in greeting. “Try not to look so darn pleased with yourself.”
“Is that how I look?” Alaric reached Ronan and extended an arm to shake, which Ronan eyed with a raised eyebrow but did not move to take.
Alaric was unbothered by the refusal. “When you told me you were attending tonight, I thought you were playing games. Not something you are known to do, but I suppose that was what made it so intriguing.”
“You know why I am here,” Ronan snapped. “Let’s not make a whole thing of it.”
“I do…” Alaric’s smile was broad as he looked Ronan over. “Although it looks to my eyes that you misread the night entirely. Did you think it was a funeral? Or are you merely hoping that someone dies and it becomes so?”
Ronan had few friends in this world. Three, in fact, which was more than he’d thought possible for a man like himself. It was more than he’d ever wanted, but he’d found them for himself because, once upon a time, those same three men existed in this world much like he did. That being, on its edges.
Alaric, the Duke of Ravencourt, was one of them. Not so long ago, Alaric had been a most moody and somber character, known as the Devil of Ravencourt to those of the ton. It was little wonder that he and Ronan got along as they did. But times had changed, and Alaric had changed with them. Although he’d spent years denouncing companionship as if it was poison, he had fallen in love, got married, and now lived in a state of perpetual bliss. Or, that was the way he told it.
“I see you have managed to pry yourself away from your wife,” Ronan said with a derisive scoff. “Has she finally gotten sick of you?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Alaric chuckled. He was a tall and imposing sort, dark features, once possessed of cold eyes that gave nothing away, now constantly smiling. He used them to effect, turningand searching the ballroom. “She is… somewhere. And she is positively eager to see you.”
“I doubt it.”
“With an attitude like that…” Alaric looked Ronan over again. “Nice suit, by the way. Black always was your color.”
“Matches my soul,” Ronan muttered.
