Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Ialready despise this place.

Dorian could feel their eyes on him, could feel their whispered questions and obvious concern for their own safety. He walked with his head held high, staring at his audience as if they were nothing more than dirt beneath his boots. Ladies in gowns eyed him with a sense of wonder as they whispered to their companions, while men stood tall as if daring him to make a move.

“He should not be here,” a voice said, followed by murmurs of agreement and more whispers.

Dorian scanned them all, taking in each face and meeting each eye. They could all be afraid of him, for all he cared, but they would not get a reaction from him.

“We knew this would happen,” his mother said, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, keeping pace with his much longer steps. He found himself slowing down slightly, not wanting to leave her behind. “You will remain the talk of the ton until this scandal fades or something replaces it.”

He knew she was right, but he did not dare admit it.

“Remember why we are here,” she added in a soft voice, loud enough for his ears only. “Do not dwell on the gossip, for it will happen either way. Finding you a suitable bride with a generous dowry should be the only thing that concerns you.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead letting them sweep over the countless unfamiliar faces. “Mother—” he paused, his gaze darting back to the refreshments table.

It wasn’t the food or drink that captured his attention, but a pair of spectacles perched on the nose of a lady.

There she is.

It took a moment, but the memory of the theater and the defiant, almost crass young woman who somehow managed to put the Marquess of Jameston in his place flashed in his mind. He remembered the way she flushed, how close they had been for a brief moment, and the way she did not tear her eyes off him.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

No.

With a frown, he turned back to his mother, who seemed to be in her element at the ball. When they arrived, the host seemed most excited to have her. It had been a while since he had seen her so happy, so elated, and he did not dare ruin that for her.

If anyone deserves a night of joy, it is her.

“Ah, Your Grace! It is so nice to see you,” a short, plump woman approached his mother with a wide smile. If she was bothered by Dorian’s demeanor or the tales of what he had done, she did not show it. She looked up at him, having to tilt her head back to make up for the height difference. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure to see you again!”

Again?

Dorian scrambled to maintain his decorum. It had been too long since he had been at Court, and the frivolities seemed lost on him.

He inclined his head slightly, a mix between a nod and a less-than-ambitious bow. “Forgive me, I am afraid I do not recall your name.”

“And you would not.” The woman chuckled.

“Dorian, this is Lady Gregory. We debuted together some time ago—longer than I would like to admit,” his mother said with a sweet smile, as if the memories flooding her were all too pleasant. “You would have been much too young to recall, but you have met her before—several times, in fact.”

Dorian struggled to force a smile. “I see. Then it is a pleasure.”

With that, his mother was pulled from him and dragged to a group of other women of similar age. He stood there for a moment, alone in the middle of the room, before turning away.

Already, this party was proving to be a dull affair. Dorian looked around the room, looking for something—or rather someone—to catch his interest. His eyes searched for the pair of spectacles, but he could not seem to find them among the crowd.

I need a drink.

If he was going to conquer this party, he need not do so sober. He spotted the refreshments table and began making his way there. No one stopped him, no one spoke to him directly, and some could barely look at him.

In a way, he liked it. There was no obligation here. Or was there? He knew the reason his mother had insisted on bringing him to the estate of the Duke of Edwardsburg. It was to find a wife with a considerable dowry, something that he had little intention of doing. But as he scanned the sea of pretty ladies, he did not see why he could not find some enjoyment.

Grabbing a drink, he could hear snippets of the conversation the woman with the spectacles was having. She was surrounded by four women who all seemed very close—though there were noticeable differences between them.

From the corner of his eye, while sipping on a glass of champagne, he watched as she laughed with her friends.

Her dress, the little he could make out of it, looked like golden silk that seemed to glisten beneath the glow of the chandeliers. It fitted her form well, suiting her subtle curves and her noticeable height. She was taller than most women—taller than even some of the men in the room.

Dorian was about to turn away, to find something else to distract himself with, when he noticed a man approaching the group with an eagerness in his step.

Perhaps I will wait and see how this plays out.

He finished his drink and grabbed another, moving to the corner of the table, where he would have a much better vantage point.

If it was anything like the theater, he did not want to miss it.

“Ah, the Earl of Amsbury!” one of the ladies called out. A voluptuous, red-haired vixen who seemed to be a budding socialite. She was the first to curtsy to the tall, blonde-haired man as he joined them.

The others followed suit, but Dorian kept his eyes on the one from the theater. He knew the kind of man that the Earl of Amsbury was. It was clear from the way he walked, the charming smile playing on his lips. If anyone were to see through it all, he had a feeling it would be his bespectacled friend.

They continued to chat for some time—the usual formalities at such events. It was growing dull incredibly fast, but Dorian’s interest didn’t wane. The more he looked at the woman from the theater, the more he couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something about her expression though, as if she was holding her tongue and forcing herself to act in a particular manner.

Once again, Dorian had finished the glass. In his defense, they were much smaller than he was accustomed to. He stepped a bit closer for a refill, plucking a delicate-looking pastry off a stand as well.

A meal and a show.

It seemed he had picked the perfect time to move closer.

“I think it would be wise to follow the Duchess’s example and find husbands sooner than later. You are all such lovely ladies, but, well, as they say, we are not getting younger! A lady can truly not find herself satisfied until she has secured herself a husband,” the Earl of Amsbury said, confident in his own words, so much so that he was beaming. “Would not you agree, Lady Eleanor?”

Finally.

The woman appeared to be gritting her teeth, as if it were taking every fiber of her very being to maintain a sense of control over her composure. Dorian could not pretend that he was not excited to hear what she had to say.

“Of course, my lord. Quite right,” she said stiffly with a pretty smile.

Dorian stood there, confused for a moment. Had he heard her right? Was this, in fact, the same bold woman he had encountered at the theater? He continued to watch, aware that now he was simply staring, as the woman turned away from the earl. He could see the tension in her shoulders and noted her clenched fists.

She did not mean a word she just said, did she?

Dorian set his drink down and stepped toward them, curious.

It took everything in her to maintain her composure, yet it was still faltering—teetering, even. Eleanor reached for the glass of champagne she had set down earlier, taking a sip as she pretended to be completely parched. But in truth, it was only a means to calm herself.

She had met the Earl of Amsbury before, enough times in fact to know him by name. Nicholas Hervey had always seemed like a charming, well-mannered man, but now he was truly testing her limits and devotion to this dare. Not only that, but she knew if she stepped out of line, if she said what was on her mind, her brother would hear of it.

Her fingers tightened around the delicate stem of her glass, the crystal threatening to shatter under the pressure.

It is only for tonight. Surely I can play the doe-eyed fool for one night.

She turned back to Nicholas and tilted her head to the side, listening as he continued to talk, this time directing his questions to her friends.

“I would expect you to bite his nose off,” a deep voice said from behind her.

Eleanor turned around slowly, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

This damned voice. Could it really be…?

She got the answer as her eyes settled on him—the Mad Duke himself.

Great, now to make more of a fool of myself.

Eleanor offered a small smile. “What would encourage you to say such a thing, Your Grace? I am nothing but perfectly polite.”

“Is that so?” He was challenging her, egging her on.

He appeared more composed than he did at the theater. His dark hair, a bit long and unruly, was tied back, but a few rebellious strands hung near his ears. His tailcoat was made of fine black wool, but it appeared to have been worn before. His waistcoat beneath was a deep shade of burgundy, with shiny, ornate buttons dotting the front.

But, as much as his attire drew her attention, it was the hint of what was underneath that truly made her do a double-take. Even dressed in stylish layers, it was evident that he was fit—his coat did nothing to hide the hard muscles underneath.

Eleanor, tall herself, was not accustomed to looking up at anyone. His presence was heavy, unavoidable, and she felt something stir within her—something unexpected. He felt like an unspoken challenge, a domineering force that towered over her.

Eleanor could not deny the attraction and immediately felt uneasy, recalling what had been said about him. He was a murderer, a man who committed patricide before his own mother’s eyes. How could she look at this man and see him as anything more than a monster?

The sound of Nicholas clearing his throat drew her attention. For a moment, she had forgotten he was there at all. She raised her eyebrows in question. The earl, however, paid her no mind at all, his gaze turning steely as he met the duke’s eyes.

“Perhaps your time away from Court has caused you to forget your manners, Your Grace,” he said in a firm voice, with a hint of a smile. “But it is customary to be introduced properly before speaking to a lady.”

“Yes, quite right. I am sure you can understand why I have perhaps forgotten my manners. Spending years in an asylum for murder does indeed have that effect,” the duke said in a flat tone while the hint of a smirk played on his lips. It was evident that he was enjoying this.

The group turned quiet then, all eyes falling on him.

He is certainly living up to his name.

“What a rude thing to speak of,” Eleanor said in a hushed tone.

If the duke heard her, he did not pay her any mind. His eyes were fixed on Nicholas, emerald jewels shimmering with smugness. He then tilted his head to the side, his gaze narrowing. “Would you be so kind as to introduce me to these charming ladies, my lord?”

Nicholas frowned, but he kept his cool. “I do not know if that is wise. Such talk is not suited for the likes of these young women. Perhaps you would do well to mingle with others, lest you say something you regret, again.”

“If you do me the honor of an introduction, I will cease with such familiarity and rudeness with haste,” the duke said, his eyes flicking to Eleanor for the briefest of moments.

His entire demeanor, his tone, even his posture were commanding and domineering. He was not threatening, but she knew she would not wish to meet him alone in the dark any time soon.

Eleanor was well aware that her friends were watching. No one dared to say a word. She kept her eyes on the duke, sensing that this man was truly dangerous. It would only make sense that she would wish to leave the conversation, to turn on her heel and never speak to him again, but she could not pretend she was not curious about him.

Nicholas frowned. “May I introduce Lady Eleanor Burton, the sister of the Duke of Berkley,” he started, nodding toward her first.

He went through the rest, slowly and articulately, but as he did, the duke’s attention did not waver. His eyes were on Eleanor and Eleanor alone.

Seemingly bored of Nicholas, he turned and peered down at her, his eyes locking on hers, refusing to release her. Or so she told herself. Eleanor could have looked away. It would have been easy enough, but she did not wish to.

“Lady Eleanor, now that we have been properly introduced,” the duke said with a slight bow before holding out his hand, “dance with me.”

Eleanor stared down at his outstretched hand, taking in the rough calluses that had begun to heal over, and the hint of scars across his palm.

I should not do this, not with him.

Everything was telling her no, even the worried looks being sent her way by her friends and Nicholas, but still, she put her hand in his.

“Eleanor, you do not have to do this,” whispered Celia, of all people.

She knew she did not have to. In fact, she was almost certain that the duke had been expecting to be rejected, as he wore a curiously amused look on his face.

But she wanted to, not because of the silly dare—well, perhaps a bit due to the dare, for seeing Celia’s surprised expression was a breath of fresh air—but because she was curious about the duke, and she was considering giving him a piece of her mind.

“I have never seen you dance,” Diana said in a quiet voice.

No one had, not in a very long time. Eleanor had been determined to never dance, seeing no point in it, and yet she was about to—willingly. She looked at her friends, giving them a reassuring smile. The duke, as dangerous as he may be, would not dare harm her so publicly.

Right?

“Well, you are about to,” the duke drawled as he gently began to guide Eleanor toward the middle of the room.

Each step away made her heart race faster. She was all too aware of the flush rising to her cheeks. If the duke noticed, he did not care or bother to mention it.

The ballroom turned quiet, each conversation hushed as they stepped in line as the music began. Eleanor felt the heat in her face, her chest.

It was a well-known fact that Eleanor Burton did not dance, and yet here she was, dancing with the Mad Duke.