“They say a great many things,” Marianne murmured, stealing another glance at the Duke’s box. He had set aside his opera glasses and appeared absorbed in his programme, though the slight tilt of his head suggested otherwise. “Most of which are probably exaggerated.”
The lights dimmed, signalling the opera’s beginning, and Marianne forced herself to focus on the stage. But she could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, sliding over her bare shoulders, the exposed curve of her chest above the silk bodice. It should have felt invasive, predatory even. Instead, it sent an unfamiliar thrill racing down her spine.
Don Giovanni by Mozartunfolded in all its tragic glory, but Marianne absorbed perhaps one note in ten. Her entire being seemed attuned to the man in the box across the way. She knew without looking when he shifted in his seat, when he lifted hisglass of what was undoubtedly a very expensive brandy, when his attention moved from the stage to her and back again.
It was a dance of sorts, this awareness. A battle of wills played out in stolen glances and deliberate composure. She would not give him the satisfaction of catching her looking again. But oh, how her skin prickled with the knowledge that he was watching.
When the first act ended and the lights brightened for intermission, Marianne practically fled the box.
“I need air,” she announced, not waiting for her parents’ reply before sweeping into the corridor.
The crush was immediate and overwhelming. London’s elite mingled in the hallways, the ladies’ gowns creating a sea of pastels and jewel tones, the gentlemen severe in their black evening wear. Conversations eddied and flowed around her, and she caught her name more than once, always accompanied by titters or disapproving sniffs.
“The nerve of these merchants...”
“...father made his fortune in shipping, I heard. Or was it textiles?”
“...pretty enough, I suppose, but that dress! So vulgar...”
Marianne kept her head high and her expression pleasantly neutral, a skill learned from years of being the only girl at her father’s business dinners.Let them talk,she thought.Their opinions matter as little as—
“Careful, little sparrow.”
The voice came from behind her—low, cultured, with an edge that made her skin prickle. She knew who it was before she turned. Who else would dare approach her so boldly? Who else possessed a voice like aged whisky poured over broken glass?
She pivoted slowly and found herself face to face with Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrowmere.
He was taller than she had expected, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. The scar was more pronounced up close, a pale slash through otherwise bronze skin that spoke of years spent in climates far from England’s grey skies. His hair was unfashionably long, black as midnight and curling slightly at his collar. And his eyes—oh, those eyes—were the colour of bitter chocolate; dark and rich and absolutely devastating.
He had positioned himself strategically, his cane planted to one side, his shoulders angled to create a barrier between her and the crowd. They stood in a pocket of relative isolation, invisible to all but the most determined onlookers.
“Your Grace.” She dropped into a curtsey that was perfectly correct and somehow still managed to convey irony. “How kind of you to concern yourself with my welfare.”
His mouth quirked—whether in amusement or annoyance, she couldn’t tell. “Wolves hunt in these halls, Miss Whitcombe.”
That he knew her name did not surprise her; gossip travelled faster than wildfire among theton. Yet something about hearingit in his voice, with that particular inflexion, made her pulse quicken.
“How fortunate then,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily, “that I have always been rather good with animals.”
This time, the quirk was definitely amusement. “Have you now? And what makes you think you could handle a wolf, little sparrow?”
The endearment ought to have offended her. Instead, warmth pooled treacherously in her stomach. “Perhaps the better question, Your Grace, is what makes you think I am a sparrow? I might be something altogether more dangerous.”
He moved closer—a single step, yet it somehow eliminated half the distance between them. This near, she could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex. Could see the faint lines around his eyes that suggested he’d once smiled more than he did now. Could feel the heat radiating from his body in the cool corridor.
“Dangerous,” he repeated, tasting the word. “You think yourself dangerous?”
“I think myself many things.” She held her ground, refusing to show even a hint of the nervousness fluttering in her chest. “Though I suspect you have already formed your own opinion.”
“Have I?”
“Haven’t you? The merchant’s daughter, playing at being quality. Wearing a gown meant to scandalise, daring to meetyour eyes across a crowded theatre.” She lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug. “I imagine you have quite thoroughly catalogued my sins already.”
His gaze dropped deliberately to her neckline, lingered just long enough to bring heat to her cheeks, then returned to her face. “That dress is designed to do more than scandalise.”
“Is it?” She tilted her head, all innocence. “And here I thought it simply complemented my complexion.”
“It does that too.”
