Valeria turned to Caroline. “Who is that?” she whispered. “And why does everyone look as though they have seen a ghost?”
She did not realize how far her voice carried until his eyes found hers across the hall. He had heard her; she was certain of it. Most men would have looked away, pretended not to notice. This one held her gaze, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
He had caught her asking about him. And he was amused.
He was tall, taller than all the men in the hall. Broad in the shoulders, with messy dark brown hair. Dark clothes, no waistcoat. He was wearing a plain coat and a linen shirt.
He had ridden hard to get here, it was obvious. His green eyes swept across the hall. Slowly. Checking exits. Counting heads.
He had scars. One on his neck, disappearing under his collar. Another on the back of his left hand, small and precise. Not from accidents.
He did not move. Did not need to. The hall had already noticed.
The man nearest the door took a full step back.
Caroline had frozen mid-sentence, a hand on her belly. John was not smiling anymore.
The man walked toward Valeria. The crowd parted for him.
Three paces away, he stopped and tipped his head. Not a bow. Not quite.
“Forgive the interruption,” he said, voice deep. A Scottish edge lingered on some of the vowels, coming and going. “I am the Duke of Welford.”
“I haven’t heard that title before,” Valeria admitted.
He was close enough now that she had to tilt her head up to look at him. Close enough that she could see the faint scar on his jaw and smell rain and horse and warmth underneath.
Her pulse kicked hard in her throat. She frowned to mask it.
Something moved across his face. Not a smile, but it was close.
“It’s still… recent, but ye might know me as the Hound.”
She knew the name. Everyone did. The Crown’s ghost. Spy. Killer. Nursemaids used his name to scare children into bed. Men in clubs spoke about him quietly.
There were stories. He had killed a man with his bare hands in Prague. He had walked into a ballroom in Vienna with blood on his shirt, and nobody said a word. The Queen gave him his title because nobody dared refuse him.
And he was in her entrance hall. Asking to compete for her hand.
Her hand was still held out, fingers curled around nothing. She lowered it. Behind her, Caroline sucked in a sharp breath. Beside her, she felt John go rigid.
The Hound watched her. Patient. Still. Waiting.
Valeria had not survived three years with Gordon Hansley by giving in to fear. She had survived by using it.
She held his gaze. Her hands shook. Her eyes did not.
The hall held its breath. Twenty-three men, a pregnant woman, a brother who looked like he wanted to commit murder, and a footman who had frozen mid-step with a dustpan full of broken china, all of them waiting to see what she would do.
“You are welcome to stay, Duke,” she offered, voice steady. Clear. “Under the same terms as every other man in this hall.”
“I would not expect any different, Duchess.”
Behind her, John exhaled through his teeth. Caroline had gone very still on the settee, one hand on her belly, the other gripping the armrest.
“Then someone find this man a room,” Valeria ordered.
Valeria turned and walked toward the dining hall. She did not look back, because looking back would meanhewould see herface, and her face was doing something she could not afford to show anyone.
