Let the gossips sharpen their knives. It would be worth it if it forced Harland’s hand. If the whispers were true—if she was to be wed against her will—then scandal might prove her salvation.
Would that not make him a hero in her eyes?
Yet some part of him knew it was wrong. Miss Harland hadn’t been forced to barter her body or bury her pride for coin. She would pay the price for another man’s sin. Just as his mother had.
Firming his jaw, he reminded himself why he’d come. For justice. For retribution. For the woman who’d given up everything to protect him. For the need?—
That’s when he saw her.
Miss Daphne Harland.
A dove trapped in a gilded cage.
The music faded.
Conversation died.
All eyes shifted to him, then to her.
It wasn’t her silky dark hair that caught his attention, nor the braided Apollo knot fastened high at the crown. Not her skin, pale as candlelit alabaster, untouched by vice. Not even her mouth, composed with the restraint of a woman whoguarded her thoughts.
It was her eyes.
Sad as a mourning song.
By God, he’d be damned if his step didn’t falter.
He considered turning back and abandoning the plan he’d nurtured for weeks. He would find another way to destroy the man he despised to the marrow.
But then came the whisper of his mother’s voice, brittle with shame.
Forgive me, Dominic. I had no choice.
He bit back a curse, gathered himself, and strode up to the lady he intended to ruin. “Miss Harland.” He took her hand, dainty in her pristine white glove, while her female companions stood bleating like lambs in a wolf’s shadow. “I know what we agreed. But I couldn’t stay away.”
Everything else faded to the ragged catch of her breath and the swift rise of her breasts. A frisson of awareness chased up his arm and settled somewhere far more dangerous.
Damnation.
“Release her, Mr Hawke.” The sharp voice to his right belonged to Miss Harland’s aunt, Lady Sanders, a commanding figure with hair as pale as steel and a will to match. “I don’t know who you’re searching for, but I’m confident it is not my niece.” She turned to her companion. “Don’t stand there gaping, Loretta. Fetch Templeton. Better still, drag my brother from his precious game of piquet.”
Dominic should have moved quickly. He should have hauled this sheltered little innocent to his chest and scorched her lips with the fire of vengeance.
But one damning truth held him still.
The angel he’d dragged to Hades did not pull away.
Curse it all, that only made her more intriguing.
“I hear the strains of a waltz, Miss Harland.” He cuppedher elbow, eager to prove his heart was blacker than a Whitechapel alley at midnight. “Will you honour me with this dance? Indulge me, or make a scene. Either suits me fine.”
Miss Harland looked at him, her gaze unreadable. “The damage is done, sir. I may as well enjoy a turn about the floor. I expect it will be my last.”
He felt a twinge of regret and dismissed it. “Then I shall endeavour to make it memorable.” What the blazes was wrong with him? He shouldn’t care if she wept through every turn.
Lady Sanders caught hold of her niece’s sash, gloved fingers bunching the fabric in a vice-like grip, and gave him a glare that could crack stone. “Cease this nonsense. Or you may find yourself summoned to a dawn appointment.”
“Then I hope Lord Harland has made peace with his maker.”
