She didn’t need to turn to know who they meant. She could feel the change in the air—the way conversation faltered, the subtle tightening of collective breath.
Adrian Blackwell stood in the doorway, immaculate in evening black, his scarred face set in its usual expression of controlled disdain. His dark eyes swept the room once, cataloguing and dismissing most of its occupants in a single glance.
Then those eyes found her.
The impact was as devastating as it had been at the opera. Her breath caught, her pulse leapt, and heat climbed her throatin a way that had nothing to do with the crowded room. He held her gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those dark depths.
Then he moved.
The crowd parted before him like tide before a ship’s prow. No one wanted to stand in the Beast’s path, though a few ambitious mothers made valiant attempts to push their daughters forward. He ignored them all, his focus absolute as he crossed the room with that particular, controlled grace of his—the slight favouring of his left leg barely noticeable.
He was coming directly toward her.
No, not merely toward her—toward the empty chair beside her. The one that ought to have been taken ten minutes ago, but that no one had dared claim.
“Your Grace,” Lady Weatherby fluttered, hurrying after him. “How wonderful that you could join us. I have a seat reserved for you just here, at the front—”
“This will do.” He lowered himself into the chair beside Marianne without looking at their hostess, his gaze apparently fixed upon the pianoforte. “I prefer a less prominent position.”
Lady Weatherby’s mouth opened and closed several times, but what could she say? One did not argue with a duke—particularly notthisduke. She retreated, defeated, leaving behind a trail of furious whispers.
Marianne kept her eyes forward, though every nerve in her body was aware of the man beside her. He had left perhaps an inch between their chairs—technically proper, yet far too close. She could smell his cologne, that distinctive blend of sandalwood and something darker. Could feel the heat of his body. Could hear his steady, measured breathing—so controlled compared to her own shallow breaths.
“Miss Whitcombe,” he said, his voice pitched low enough for her ears alone. “You look well.”
“Your Grace.” She was proud of how steady her voice sounded. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you would find musicales tedious.”
“I find most things tedious.” He shifted slightly, his thigh brushing hers through the layers of silk and petticoats. “But occasionally, something proves… interesting enough to warrant attendance.”
The wordinterestingcarried weight—suggestion, promise. Marianne felt heat bloom in her cheeks but refused to look at him. “And what, precisely, has captured your interest tonight?”
“Fishing for compliments, Miss Whitcombe?”
“Simply trying to understand what could draw the Beast of Harrowmere from his lair.”
She felt, rather than saw, his smile. “Careful. That name might give people the wrong impression.”
“Oh? And what impression would that be?”
He leaned closer, close enough that his breath stirred the curls at her temple. “That I’m dangerous.”
“Are you not?”
“Incredibly.” The word was almost a purr—dark and promising. “The question is whether that frightens you or—” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “—excites you.”
Marianne’s hands clenched in her lap, her nails digging into her palms through the thin gloves. She should have been scandalised. Should have moved away, signalled displeasure—done something to discourage such inappropriate intimacy.
Instead, she turned her head slightly, bringing her mouth close to his ear. “Perhaps it’s both.”
His sharp intake of breath was immensely satisfying. For a moment, they sat frozen, the space between them thrumming with tension. Then Mrs Fortescue struck the first chord of her performance, and the spell shifted.
Or rather, it transformed into something else.
The music was, as predicted, dreadful. Mrs Fortescue attacked the keys with more enthusiasm than skill, producing something that might charitably be called an interpretation of Mozart, but sounded more like someone murdering a harpsichord. Several people winced. Someone in the back actually whimpered.
“Goodness gracious,” Adrian muttered. “It’s worse than I remembered.”
“You’ve heard her before?”
