The next guests took Lady Peterson’s attention, and the small party made their way through the house to the ballroom, which had been decked in flowers from the hothouse. Candles hung from the ceiling and were braced against the walls. They flickered in brackets, lending light to the proceedings while still allowing for a few shadowed areas to creep in. Already, there were a few young ladies and gentlemen taking advantage of the dimness.
Maybe, if she was very lucky, the Duke wouldn’t be in attendance. Maybe he’d accidentally gotten into an accident, like falling off a cliff. Falling off a horse. Or maybe his legs had mysteriously fallen off so he couldn’t walk anddefinitelycouldn’t dance.
“Oh,” her mother said, and for a heartbeat, Sybil thought she’d seen the Duke, but instead she’d seen one of her acquaintances.
That was, one of her acquaintances who wouldn’t give her a direct cut. Mrs. Wembley was a woman almost as vulgar as Scarlet, although she came from good stock, and it was only her family history, and the fact she had married a rich man, that allowed her entry into events such as these.
Sybil hated it. Then again, she hated almost everything about balls and Society, so that wasn’t precisely surprising.
Thomas had long since peeled away to the card rooms, and her mother was so engaged in talking about the latest scandals and fashions—sometimes with the very little mix between the two—that she could slip away without being noticed.
She didn’t have any friends she could take shelter with, but as she passed along the back of the room, she noticed the Duke standing with another man an inch or two shorter than him. Both men appeared to be looking across the crowd as though searching for something.
She ducked behind a pillar and clutched her reticule to her chest. So hewashere after all. That was a blow, but one that could be overcome. All she had to do was ignore him.
“My Lady,” a voice said from behind her. She turned, a hand against her mouth, but it was only a young man, probably only a year or so older than her. He was dashing, she supposed, although by the look of his smug smile, he thought himself a lot more dashing than he was.
“I’m sorry, have we met?”
“We have now.” He held out his hand. “Lord Alverstone, at your service.”
She touched his hand briefly but didn’t let him kiss it. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Her heart in her mouth, she looked across for the Duke, but she couldn’t see him. “Excuse me, My Lord.”
“What is your name?” If he didn’t know her name, he didn’t know her connection to her mother—and if he didn’t know her connection to her mother, he was less likely to make inappropriate advances.
She fluttered her fan across her face. “Why, I couldn’t possibly tell you.”
That had been the wrong thing to say. His smile spread across his face as he stepped closer, misinterpreting her evasion as coyness. “You are a beauty,” he said, touching her arm. “It would be a shame if we did not get further acquainted.”
“A shame for me or for you?” she asked tartly.
“Why, both of course.”
“Is that so?” She fanned herself even harder. This corner of the room appeared to be less populated, which meant there was no one at this angle she could even claim to know.
And he was looming over her even more now, taking her arm possessively. “Why don’t we dance, then, my lovely unknown, and we can see just how acquainted we can be?”
“Excuse me,” she snapped, trying to pull her arm away. They were in full view in aballroom; how was no one noticing this? “I don’t know what you think about me, but I assure you it’s incorrect.”
“Is it?” He was fully in her personal space now, and she wondered where would be best to jab her fan. His groin seemed like the best option, but she didn’t want to get too close to that particular part of him. “What do I assume, My Lady?”
“That I would be amenable to—” She struggled for words, just for a second, but before she could think of a phrase, to sum up whatthiswas, a cool voice sounded behind her.
“Unhand the lady, Alverstone.”
The man jumped as though stung, and he removed his hand and stepped back immediately. Sybil closed her eyes.
She knew precisely who that voice belonged to. Which man, in short, had sought her out in this quiet, darkened corner of the ballroom. If she’d been anywhere else, she would have screamed. Within the confines of her head, she prayed the floor would open up and swallow her whole. The floor remained where it was. And she was obliged to turn and face her rescuer.
The Duke of Danver.
Impossibly, he looked even better than she remembered him, which was entirely unfair. She hated every inch of his face, from his straight nose, his strong jaw, his expressive mouth—currently curled into a cold smile—and the rich shade of his blue eyes. All of it was terrible. She’d rather she’d just jabbed Lord Alverstone and had done with it.
“Are you all right?” he asked her quietly.
Screaming still sounded like a reasonable option. No doubt he was unsurprised to find herhereof all places. Because what else would a lady like her do, except seek male attention somewhere covert?
“I’m fine,” she said, a bite to her voice. Good. Angry was better than upset. “I was just leaving.” Taking the opportunity to jab Lord Alverstone in his side for good measure—he was too young to want to propose, anyway, so it wasn’t as though she was losing a future prospect—she stormed past. Back into the lights.
