She could have used Dominic’s name as a weapon, certain this wretch would cower. Instead, she drew the dagger from its sheath.
“One more step and I’ll gut you like a fish.” Moonlight caught the edge of the blade, the sudden glint making it all the more menacing.
The man only laughed and came closer, his gloved hand lifting as though he meant to take her chin. “Temper like that ought to be rewarded. Come claim your prize.”
“Back away from her.”
The command came from the terrace. Dominic stood there, broad-shouldered and immovable, his expression cold enough to chill the air.
The masked gentleman turned, his confidence collapsing like rigging in a storm. “Easy, Hawke. I meant no harm. Women who come to the Masque know the game.”
She didn’t wait for him to descend the steps. She hurried down the gravel path toward the gardens and her cottage.
Nothercottage.
Nothing about her life here was real.
By the time she reached the door, her breath was ragged. She fumbled inside her bodice for the key, her fingers clumsy with haste.
The lock clicked.
She slipped inside and slammed the door behind her, throwing the bolt just as footsteps pounded up the path.
Silence held for a heartbeat.
A heavy fist struck the wood.
“Daphne.”
She pressed her back to the door, her pulse racing.
“Go back to your guests, Mr Hawke.”
“Open the door. Let me in.”
That was the problem. She had let him in—a self-proclaimed scoundrel—and fallen prey to some foolish notion that he was different from other men.
“There’s nothing left to discuss.”
“There’s everything to discuss. Open the damn door.”
She couldn’t. One look at the dark torment in his eyes and she would stroke his brow, be the softness he didn’t even know he craved.
“I need something to wipe blood off my knuckles.”
“You have a handkerchief in your pocket.”
He cursed beneath his breath, but tempered his tone. “Let me in, Daphne. Don’t lock me out because of something I said in the heat of the moment.”
She imagined opening the door, falling into his arms, burying her face in his neck and breathing in the scent she was starving for.
“Are you saying you didn’t mean it?”
Nothing. Just the scuff of his boots on stone outside the door, the cries of sybarites and the haunting lilt of the violins.
“I suppose marrying me must seem abhorrent,” he said.
“Self-pity is beneath you. You have the strength to own your mistakes. Don’t disappoint me further.”
