Chapter 2

The gentleman's midnight black hair curled over his forehead and behind his ears, suggesting a need for a trim that somehow did not detract from his elegance but rather enhanced his rakish appeal. His cheekbones were pronounced, carved with an almost savage grace, and his lips held a cynical edge that did nothing to diminish their sensuality.

His attire was impeccable: dark trousers paired with a jacket, a crisp white cravat, and a striking blue waistcoat that clung to his lithe frame with flawless elegance. Elizabeth felt a flutter of surprise—almost mortification—as her heart quickened. It was not like her to be swayed by mere physical attractiveness; she had always hoped to appreciate and be appreciated for thought and charm rather than appearance.

Perhaps he is a beast in fine clothing, or perhaps he is not the duke.

The unknown gentleman disappeared through the crowd, and Elizabeth chuckled lightly at herself, realizing how tense she had been. Leaning back against the cool marble of the balcony, she gazed up at the night sky, grateful for the clarity that revealed the stars twinkling like diamonds strewn across black velvet. Knowing she couldn't hide forever before her mother or aunt came looking, she reluctantly pushed off from the balustrade to return inside.

Just then, her heart quickened as she noticed a figure approaching the terrace. Instinctively, she drew back into the shadows, her breath catching slightly. As he walked onto the balcony, he faltered into remarkable stillness. Elizabeth felt a spark of something she couldn't quite name. His gaze lingered toward her direction, thoughtful and assessing. He walked forward, closing the distance between them until he was unsettlingly close.

"It was not my imagination. A lady is indeed hiding out here," he said, his voice low and slightly amused.

A spurt of humor danced through her. "I was relaxing, sir."

"Your tone suggests my presence is an intrusion."

"It is."

His eyes flared slightly, and then the corners of his mouth hitched in a small smile. The hint of carnality in his expression stole her breath for a heart-stopping moment.

"Ah, not the reaction I am used to," he murmured, casually plucking a cheroot from his pocket.

Annoyed with her response, she said, "Of course not; men of your privilege are accustomed to adulation of those who wish to sit under their arse and a perverse enjoyment of such fawning."

Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth, appalled by her frankness. She shot an accusing glance at the empty glass on the ledge.

"Hmm, are we to blame a single glass of champagne for that egregious slip?" he asked, his tone laced with wicked amusement.

It was surprising he was not offended by her words … or was he?

She felt the impact of his eyes as they studied her. This close, Elizabeth saw they were a bright, piercing silver.

An elegant brow arched. "Drowning sorrows?"

"Boredom," she confessed softly, her heart strangely fluttering with the novelty of the exchange.

"That dreadful beast. There is nothing worse than a mind haunted by boredom. It might push one to presume men of certain ilk enjoy when others sit under their arse and flatter them."

A choked laugh escaped Elizabeth, and she found herself reevaluating the man before her. Perhaps he was not the duke the ladies had whispered about.

"I had four glasses this evening, though I confess they are not entirely responsible for my candor."

"An honest lady, how refreshing," he replied, his voice holding a caustic edge that belied his amusement.

"I see you own to jadedness along with your conceited arrogance."

"All part and parcel of a good duke."

Elizabeth lightly chuckled. Who was he?

"A lovely laugh," he remarked, lighting his cheroot and glancing at her with renewed interest. "Come into the light. I want to see you more clearly."

"Denied," she drawled, stepping further into the shadows.

He lifted an eyebrow, taking a slow drag on his cheroot.

"Another first for you, I can see," she said softly.

"You are interesting. I like interesting things."

A searing flash of awareness burned through her as Elizabeth stared at him. That soft, contemplative murmur felt decidedly dangerous.

"I have never met a rake before," she said softly. "And I presume you are indeed the rogue ladies whisper about."

"You are not running."

"Should I be?" Elizabeth asked, her heart pounding with the thrill of the exchange.

"Half the fun is in the chase."

Though she laughed, Elizabeth felt threatened by the sensuality he exuded because her heart had quickened the moment he stepped into her awareness and had not slowed. "Is that to say you will be chasing me?"

"Depends."

"You are staring, sir, and there is nothing to see but shadows." Elizabeth was confident he could not discern her features.

"Shadows often hide the most intriguing secrets," he said smoothly, his gaze not leaving her. "I've always enjoyed unraveling mysteries."

"I am hardly mysterious."

"Permit me to know who you are."

Caution pushed her to say, "No."

"Perhaps I could entice you to reveal yourself with the promise of better company. Your boredom with the night would end."

Elizabeth smiled. "You think highly of your company, sir."

"As you should of yours," he countered, stepping just a tad closer, his rousing fragrance mingling with the night air. "It is not every day one encounters a lady who is witty and laughs so beautifully."

Elizabeth smiled, yet something in his tone, a lack of warmth, suggested a certain detachment. What a charmer you are, she thought, but his gaze carried a cynical edge, as if every interaction were merely a move in a strategic game.

"Such unabashed flattery, sir," she said, wondering about the true nature of the man before her. "One might think you have practiced this art of flirtation quite extensively."

Another step brought him startlingly close. His rich masculine scent surrounded her, and something heated and uncomfortable shivered low in her belly.

"Flattery is merely the currency of the ton," he replied, his tone unapologetic, almost dismissive.

Elizabeth was struck by his candor—so different from the usual veil of nicety she encountered in her social circles. She found herself staring, intrigued and a bit unsettled.

"Do any of your words carry the weight of sincerity, or are they just well-rehearsed lines meant to chase and disarm?" Are you only a rogue?

His silver eyes seemed to flicker with a provocative light. "Are you disarmed?"

She laughed, a clear sound that filled the cool night air. "No, sir, I am not."

At that moment, a noise distracted him, and he turned, his broad shoulders shielding her from view. Elizabeth felt a flutter of warmth—his gesture, protective and considerate of her reputation, was at odds with the cynical fa?ade he projected.

"Basil," a lady's crisp voice called out, her tone laced with irritation. "Why do you insist on escaping even though you only just arrived?"

"I glimpsed the matchmaking fervor in your eyes and thought a retreat strategically best," he responded smoothly.

The lady huffed. "You sorely vex my nerves. I am of the mind to depart early. Lady Michaels will have to forgive me. I met the most unpleasant lady. I cannot imagine why the countess thought it necessary to perform introductions to this Mrs. Armstrong. She is an American, and you know how vulgar they are with their manners, and this one … I shudder upon recalling her laugh and deplorable accent."

A cold sensation pierced Elizabeth's chest, and she stiffened, the words slicing through her like a blade. The contempt and prejudice were palpable, leaving a tight ache in her heart.

"Allow me to relieve you of the horror by escorting you home," the duke offered, his tone smooth as silk, betraying no sign of disapproval of the lady's cutting words.

Numb, she watched him walk away with the elegantly dressed lady. Anger and embarrassment churned within her as she took a deep breath and forced herself back into the ballroom, weaving through the crowd to find her mother and aunt.

"Mother—" she started, her voice tight with emotion, only to freeze as her brother and the duke approached.

Her aunt gasped, her fan snapping up to cover her mouth. "Brandon is coming over with the Duke of Basil! I never knew he was acquainted with the duke! How fortuitous."

Her brother and the duke stopped before them, and the duke gave no indication of their recent conversation or recognition.

Does he realize I was with him on the terrace?

Elizabeth's heart raced when those enigmatic silver eyes swept over her in a swift, thorough appraisal, then flicked away dismissively. The painful duality of her interactions with the duke coalesced into a poignant awareness that she might never fit into ton life as her mother and aunt anticipated.

"Your Grace," Brandon said with a warm smile, "allow me to present my aunt, Viscountess Barnaby, my mother, Mrs. Armstrong, and my sister, Miss Elizabeth Armstrong. My sister and mother arrived from New York only two weeks ago."

As Brandon introduced them, something flickered in the duke's eyes—a brief, indecipherable spark before his expression settled into detached politeness. Elizabeth's aunt and mother dipped into graceful curtsies, their voices a soft murmur of pleasantries. Elizabeth stood frozen, her heart thundering so loudly in her ears that their words were lost to her.

"A delight to meet you, Mrs. Armstrong," the duke said, offering a smile as hollow as the echo of distant laughter.

His eyes, cold and calculating, met Elizabeth's.

The hypocrite.

Her family stared at her, a palpable sense of expectation hanging in the air.

"Bette," Brandon chided gently. "I know it is not every day one meets a duke, but you are supposed to curtsy."

The duke's slightly raised eyebrow, arching in aristocratic expectation, only fueled her defiance. He appeared so aloof, so supremely arrogant—as if he were an emperor disdainfully regarding an unworthy subject. It ignited a fire within her.

"A curtsy?" Elizabeth was proud of the calmness of her voice. She lifted her chin, her gaze unyielding. "I would offer such a courtesy to those who have earned the honor. I daresay both my admiration and contempt can be earned; it must be my vulgar American manners that allow for the possibility."

Her mother's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.

"Elizabeth!" she gasped, her voice a mixture of dismay and disbelief.

Guilt twisted in Elizabeth's chest as she saw the mortification etched on her family's faces. Her aunt's complexion paled as if she might faint. Around them, a few ladies tittered behind their fans, their whispers like the rustling of dry leaves.

Yet, civility demanded some gesture of politeness, however strained. With a tight smile that did not reach her eyes, Elizabeth nodded to the duke, her head bowing slightly but not nearly enough to count as a curtsy. "Your Grace, a pleasure," she said.

"I can tell that it is anything but a pleasure, Miss Armstrong," the duke replied, his voice icy with disdain. "Still, I find that honesty suits you far better than flattery ever could. Your lack of manners can be overlooked in this instance, even if it is unpalatable."

His words, sharp as a blade, left a sting of humiliation. The wretch! Elizabeth turned away, her shoulders stiff. She had to walk past him to leave the ballroom, and she did so without another word, her head held high. Behind her, his soft, mocking laugh followed, kissing over her skin in a warning.

She left the ballroom, the echoes of the duke's laughter mingling with the murmur of the scandalized crowd, now wishing more than ever that she had not attended.

"Bette!"

She stopped and waited for her brother to catch up with her.

"What was that about?" Brandon demanded tightly. "Do you know what you have done?"

"Is this the friend you have been telling me about? The one you were eager for me to meet?"

"Yes." He raked his fingers through his hair. "I know you are a lady of good sense and manners. I cannot imagine what pushed you to be so provoking and rude with His Grace."

Elizabeth told him what she had witnessed without explaining why she was on the balcony.

"I am sorry, Bette," he said with a heavy sigh. "I suspect that lady was the Duchess of Basil, his mother. Her words were terrible, but that does not give you leave to—"

"Do not say it, Brandon," Elizabeth snapped. "You do not seem angry that our mother was so grossly insulted. I am going home. Please inform mama that I will send back the carriage."

She walked away and collected her cloak, refusing to stop at the strained call of her brother. As she stepped into the cooler air of the night, the weight of what she had done—and the consequences that might follow—settled heavily upon her. Having a powerful and influential duke as an enemy would be unwise.

"More like catastrophic," she whispered, closing her eyes.

Oh, what have I done?