The music started.
The men bowed; the ladies curtsied—and Leonie wished fervently that Rochdale could see her dancing and be eaten alive with despair for his blatant disregard for her.
Thatwould be a great moment.
She was so caught in her imaginary and vehement triumph she mistakenly gave the duke’s hand a little squeeze.
His brows rose. The keen glint of a hunter came to his eye, and the next time they came back together in the pattern of the dance, he gave her hand a squeeze in return, as well as a clench of the fingers.
Leonie shot him her most dazzling smile, knowing that somewhere in the ballroom her friends were thinking: one point for the glance, one for the introduction, three points for the dance... and did they notice the hand squeeze? There were no points for that, but it spoke well for a call—
She almost tripped over her feet, and not because she was clumsy, but because the Earl of Rochdale stood right at the edge of the dance floor and he was not happy.
In fact, he watched her as if he was willing some extremely nasty curse upon her person. No wonder she had tripped.
In response to his sourness, she leaned in more than proper to the duke and let her hip brush against his. Did Rochdale notice her advance? Good!
The pattern changed direction, calling for the men to place a hand on their partner’s waist. The duke’s hand held her waist with the weight of possession. His grin said he was enjoying himself and was eager for their dance pattern to bring them close again.
Normally, Leonie would be alarmed. She liked to keep a bit of control on the men in her sphere. Distance was a good way to keep them at bay.
However, anger and pride combined to make her flaunt the rules, just as she had that fateful night in India so long ago.
Back then, Roman Gilchrist had scowled as he watched her dance with another man.
Suddenly, past became present. Memories, mistakes, and the horror of one fateful night roiled inside her with such force Leonie stopped dancing.
The debutante next to her didn’t notice and almost tripped over her with a small cry of alarm.
Leonie looked at the girl in confusion, her mind lost in a moment no one could see save herself. She took a step back and almost ran into the dancer behind her.
The duke came to a halt and, therefore, so did everyone else around him despite the music merrily playing along. There was chaos on the floor and it was all Leonie’s fault.
“I’m so sorry,” Leonie said to Camberly. “I don’t feel well.” She placed her hand to her abdomen and, without waiting for a response, she tore off the dance floor, and away from Gilchrist’s disturbing presence.
The crowd parted for her. The duke called her name. She escaped to the hallway.
There, lifting her skirts, she ran as far from the ballroom as she could, opening a door and finding the marquis’s library.
The room was thankfully, blessedly empty. A lamp was burning and there were chairs in front of a cold hearth. Leonie didn’t think twice about closing the door behind her. She leaned against it, praying no one saw her come into the room, and then slowly sank to her knees.
She could not go back out there. The humiliation was too much to bear. Everyone would be talking about her and her father would be furious.
Minutes passed with the only sound being the pounding of her heart and her frantic breathing. Her mind would not shut off. She did feel sick.She did.
She lifted her hands to feel her forehead—and then gave a small gasp. In the lamp’s light, they appeared covered with blood.
Dear Lord, there had been so much blood that night.She’d tried to staunch its flow and yet it kept coming... and she’d begged Arthur not to die, even though she’d just shot him.
The worst had been watching the light of life fade from his eyes. She could even remember his last words to her—
A knock sounded on the door. “Miss Charnock.”
It was Gilchrist. Panic sent her to the other side of the room.“Leave me alone.”
In response, just like that night long ago, the door opened and Gilchrist entered the room.
Gilchrist, who knew what she had done.
