Templeton scoffed. “Physicians are not infallible. Perhaps it was a temporary injury. Or the man made a mistake. Speak to those closest to him instead of dragging me over the coals.”
Daphne’s mind flicked to Mrs Foster, the woman her father had kept in London for years. And to Aunt Augusta, who knew every sordid detail of the household. If anyone knew the truth, it would be them.
Yet the lord’s newfound courage raised suspicions too.
Templeton gripped his wolf mask a little tighter. “The question you should be asking is this: where were you while your mother was being harassed? It’s a pity you discovered your courage so late.”
Dominic went still. His jaw tightened, but the shine in his eyes told a different story. Perhaps the person he truly blamed was himself.
Was Shadowmere his penance? A place where he forced himself to witness what his mother had kept hidden.
She felt the same prickle behind her eyes, a thickness in her throat. Not for his mother. For him.
But he didn’t crumble. He buried his pain and gripped the desk with a ferocity that threatened to splinter the wood.
“Take your mistress and get the hell out of my house. I’ll refund the price of your ticket. There’s little I can do to restore your honour.”
Templeton gave a harsh laugh. “You preach about honour, yet you bedded Harland’s daughter just to spite him. She’d have been better off with me. I merely wear a wolf mask.”
Dominic lurched forward, murder in his eyes.
Daphne stepped into his path before Ramsey could move, the blade still clutched in her hand. She braced her palmagainst Dominic’s chest, feeling the violent thud of his heart beneath her fingers.
“It’s not the same,” he rasped, fury roughening his voice. “I won’t discard her when the game grows tiresome. I’ll marry her. I know my duty.”
The room fell silent.
Her hand slipped from his chest.
Duty. The word her father had used when he bartered her future for coin.
She stared at him. Marry her? The decision had been made without her consent. No proposal. No declaration. Merely a convenient way to repair the damage done.
Tears filled her eyes, blurring the room into a smear of candlelight. The first drop slipped beneath her mask.
Dominic clasped her elbow. “Daphne.”
“Don’t say another word.” Each syllable came in airy gasps that betrayed her effort at poise. “Like every man I encounter, you’ve forgotten I have a voice.”
She pushed past him and hurried from the room, wishing for a carriage to take her anywhere but here. He might have followed, but she was swept into the stream of guests hurrying towards the ballroom.
A small platform had been erected beside the musicians. A masked gentleman stood upon it while a woman circled him, lifting his chin as though inspecting a horse at Tattersall’s, as the crowd shouted bids.
This was the world Dominic ruled.
A world she could never call home.
Daphne turned away. The heat, the noise, it all felt suffocating. Before anyone could stop her, she hurried through the terrace doors and into the cool night air.
She took a moment to stop and breathe.
But Shadowmere on the night of the Masque was no place for a lone woman to linger. A man prowled from the depths of the shadows, the beak of hismask long and obscene. He reeked of perfume and brandy.
“Just when I thought the night dull,” he said, arrogance etched into his stride, “you appear.”
“I’m in no mood for games, sir.”
“Neither am I, sweeting.”
