The voice came from behind her—low, slurred, and altogether unwelcome. Marianne turned to find Lord Ralston lounging in the shadow of the column, a half-empty glass in his hand. His eyes were glazed with drink, his cravat loosened past decency.
Of all people, he was the last she wished to encounter. The memory of his behaviour at Lady Pembroke’s musicale some weeks past—too close, too insistent, reeking of brandy and entitlement—was enough to make her skin tighten.
“Lord Ralston,” she said coolly, making to pass him.
He shifted, just enough to block her path. “No need to run off. I merely wished to apologise.” The word came out slurred, heavy with false charm. “Can’t have anyone thinking I meant offence.”
“Then you might begin,” she said evenly, “by stepping aside.”
His smile faltered, the veneer of civility slipping. “Careful, Miss Whitcombe. You may find you’ve fewer protectors than you think.”
“And you may find,” she returned, her voice cool as crystal, “that I’ve no need of them.”
The brief flash of temper in his eyes was enough to send a ripple of unease down her spine. He stepped closer, breath heavy with drink. “Pretty words. But you forget yourself. You’re no duchess’s daughter to play the grand lady—”
“Is there a problem here?”
The new voice cut through the air—quiet, measured, but carrying an unmistakable edge.
Ralston froze. Adrian stood a few paces behind him, the candlelight from the ballroom glancing along his shoulders, catching the pale line of his scar. He did not look angry, precisely—merely dangerous, in that way that made sensible men reconsider their choices.
“I believe you were just leaving, Lord Ralston,” Adrian said, his tone soft but unmistakably final.
“I... yes. Leaving.” The viscount practically fled, stumbling in his haste to escape.
Adrian watched him go, then turned that dark gaze on Marianne. “You really must stop wandering into dark corners at these events.”
“I wasn’t wandering. I was eavesdropping.”
“Ah. Learn anything interesting?”
She studied him—this man who had thrown himself before a carriage for his sister, who had let society paint him as a monster rather than a saviour. The scar stood pale against his skin, and she found herself staring at it with new understanding.
He noticed, of course. His expression hardened, his jaw tightening.
“Do you find my scars grotesque?” The question came out like a challenge—half-snarl, half-defence.
Marianne met his gaze steadily. “No,” she said quietly. “The scars are honest. It’s the mask you wear that keeps people at a distance—though I suspect that’s rather the point.”
The silence between them drew taut as a bowstring. His lips pressed into a hard line; she could almost see the struggle behind his eyes—surprise, perhaps disbelief, perhaps something deeper.
At last, he crossed to a nearby table where champagne gleamed in crystal. He took two glasses and returned, offering one to her. When she reached for it, he didn’t release it at once. Their fingers overlapped on the glass, his hold firm, almost possessive.
“Drink,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on her mouth.
She raised the glass to her lips, supremely aware of his gaze following the movement. The champagne was cold, crisp, bubbling on her tongue. She swallowed, and his eyes tracked the movement down her throat with an intensity that made her skin heat.
It felt as though he had already kissed her. As though he was kissing her now—without even touching her.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
“Yes.” No denial. No apology. Just the word, laden with intent.
“People will notice.”
“Let them.” He took the glass from her hand, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. “Dance with me.”
“That would be—”
