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“Precisely. Considerable improvement.” He turned to Juliet. “Your Grace. A very fine gown.”

“You are not the man to ask,” Lady Worthington said.

“I have excellent taste,” Daniel said, genuinely affronted.

“You have taste,” Lady Worthington conceded, “of a variety.”

Valerie had drawn Juliet a step aside, their heads close, and the composed quality Juliet wore in public rooms had gone out of her face. She was laughing at something, her shoulders loose, her cheeks bright, and her voice had dropped to the natural register he heard at breakfast, at dinner, in the corridor, the one that had nothing to perform.

He saw Penhurst before Juliet did.

The man stood near the far wall in dark formal dress, a glass held loosely in one hand, his attention moving across the room at slow intervals. The sweep stopped.

On Juliet.

Adam set down his glass at once, his gaze sharp.

The orchestra gave the opening phrase of the waltz, a long, drawn-out chord, and couples around them began to shift and separate.

He turned to Juliet. “Will you dance with me?”

She looked at him, and whatever Valerie had just been saying went unfinished. “Yes,” she said.

He led her onto the floor and brought her into a hold. Her hand was in his, her other hand at his shoulder, and he drew her in closer than the spacing required, his palm flat at her waist. She came without stepping back or adjusting the distance. He could feel her warmth through the silk of her gown.

They turned with the first bar.

Over her shoulder, he found Penhurst at the edge of the floor. The man had moved. He stood at the edge of the dancing, no longer in conversation, his glass at his side, but his eyes had not shifted.

Adam’s hand pressed at her back, drawing her in by a fraction. He brought his mouth to her ear.

“You are entirely safe.” He kept his voice below the music. “Penhurst will not come near you. Not tonight. Not any night.” He felt the grip of her fingers tighten at his shoulder, causing the flash of memory behind his eyelids from many nights ago now, in a dining room, her hands had gripped his lapels exactly that hard.

Now, he cleared his throat, focusing on the matter at hand. “You are my wife. He cannot touch what is mine to protect.”

“He is staring,” she whispered.

“I know.” They turned, but Adam’s lips remained near her temple. “Let him look at what he cannot have.”

He intended to pluck out the lecher’s eyes soon enough.

They danced and, after a while, Adam looked up to find Penhurst had not moved from the edge of the floor.

No. In fact, Lord Clarkston stood beside him now, head inclined, and Penhurst spoke low and close.

In that moment, Penhurst looked up.

He found Adam’s eyes across the floor without flinching, and held them—one second, two, three—while the waltz continued and the room turned around them.

Then he smiled, and Adam’s grip tightened around Juliet’s waist.

Oh, he was going to kill that corpse of a man.

Chapter Thirteen

The waltz came to its last bar and the orchestra drew back. Adam guided Juliet off the floor with one hand at her arm, and they were barely clear of the dancers when Lord Whitmore materialized from the departing crowd—his wife a half-step behind him—and at his shoulder Lady Vickers, fan already at work.

“Ravenlocke.” Whitmore extended his hand with the ease of a man accustomed to reaching first. “Splendid evening. And the new duchess, of course.” His eyes slid over Juliet and returned to Adam. “We were only just remarking what a Season this has been. Full of surprises. You heard, naturally, about Lord Penhurst and the⁠—”