Chapter 13

Julian had no business at the Duke of Acaster's ball.

That, he understood with crisp clarity.

But he hadn't been able to stay away.

He understood that, too, as he moved through Acaster's mansion, the building filled to the rafters with lords and ladies, conversation and music, and free-flowing laughter—an atmosphere glittering with bright effervescence.

For weeks, the ton had been panting with anticipation of this ball—and to be the recipients of the new duke's hospitality. To the disappointment of some, to be sure, a better ball couldn't be asked for. But for the many, the duke had passed the test with flying colors. After tonight, not a single doubt would linger that he wasn't one of them. The title of duke had been only the first step. His bottomless wealth and willingness to spend it on frivolity for all was the finish line.

Julian took a left down a corridor that would lead to the card room, given that only gentlemen were taking this turn. The other direction surely led to the ballroom, where he would be immediately conscripted into dancing, and he wasn't ready for that.

A stray thought wandered into his mind.

Was Tessa out there now…dancing?

She might've been an unconventional lady, but she was the sister of a duke and a beauty and intelligent. Surely, a few gentlemen in the ton valued such qualities in a woman.

Further, she would have a dowry. But then, she would have her own money, wouldn't she? She was half owner of a popular, high-stakes gaming hell. If her brother was rich as Croesus, it only followed she was, too.

Yes, Julian would wager his finest filly that many a gentleman in attendance would be willing to overlook Tessa's idiosyncrasies to get his hands on her blunt.

The very thought had his stomach turning as he entered the mostly male domain of the card room, the last refuge of many a gentleman.

Quickly, however, he found he couldn't escape Tessa that easily. All the talk was of the Calthorp sisters.

"They're a serious lot aren't they?" said one lordling, struggling with the idea.

"As serious as ladies can be, I suppose," cut in another lordling.

That got a round of laughter. Julian saw the humor not at all. Clearly, none of these gentlemen had ever conversed with the ladies in question.

"That Lady Viveca is a sweet bit of fluff."

Julian only just didn't snort. Fluff…Lady Viveca? This gentleman had obviously never discussed The Family Shakespeare with the sweet bit of fluff that was Lady Viveca—or he would understand that kitten had razor-sharp claws.

Society was in no way ready for the sisters Calthorp.

Again, the feeling thrummed through him. He shouldn't be here. The impulse to come had been a bad idea—a weakness.

However, as he turned to leave, an amused voice rang out, "And the odds on the other sister? Lady Tessa?"

The question stopped Julian dead in his tracks.

Or, rather, the one word—odds.

With an efficiency borne of practice, he schooled his face into amiability and asked, "What's this about odds?"

No gentleman would question an inquiry related to sport and betting.

"Haven't you seen the book at White's today?" asked the amused voice.

"The odds on the Calthorp sisters being married by year's end," chimed another.

"Of course, Lady Viveca will be snapped up by some lucky chancer right quick," said one lord with a morose twist of the mouth.

"And Lady Saskia, too," spoke another, albeit with a smidge less certainty.

"That chancer might be a hair less lucky."

Another round of laughter.

"Her dowry will be enough to warm one in the night."

"But Lady Tessa…" A doubtful shake of the head was enough to complete the gentleman's sentence.

"She's an altogether different proposition."

"Fifty to one?"

"Odds that fair?" came a snark.

"A thousand to one."

"Have you seen the mode of dress she parades around in?"

"The cravat and waistcoat, you mean?"

"Unnatural."

Another word that bristled across the fine hairs of Julian's neck—unnatural. When gentlemen started pronouncing a woman unnatural, it usually didn't bode well for the woman in question.

Defensiveness surged through him. Tessa was her own woman—the sort who didn't give two tosses about the opinions of society. Her journey through life had fashioned her thus—and he wouldn't change that about her, as blasted frustrating as the woman could be.

"But have you seen her tonight?" asked a young viscount with a knowing waggle of his eyebrows.

Other knowing eyebrows joined in waggling chorus. Julian's smile slid to the floor. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't seen her, then?"

"I've only just arrived."

"One could be tempted into thinking her a diamond of the first water."

"We're speaking of Lady Tessa Calthorp, correct?" Julian clarified.

Of course, he knew that truth for himself—intimately—but he'd thought himself the only one to know it. When had society begun thinking of her so?

Those knowing waggles of male eyebrows…Have you seen her tonight?

What was he missing?

Only one way to find out.

He pivoted on his heel and strode from the card room, purpose in every step, his driving thought that he find Tessa. She'd become the subject of gossip, and he would know why—and protect her, if necessary.

"Ormonde!"

Julian tensed at the sound of his title and as quickly released it when he found Lord Wrexford barreling toward him.

"She's here," the excitable earl exclaimed.

Julian's brow gathered. "She?"

"The duchess."

Oh, this again.

The Duchess of Acaster.

"Should I ask her to waltz?"

Julian didn't hesitate. "Yes." The duchess would reject Wrexford outright and put the man out of his misery. It was the kinder course.

Impatience itched at Julian as he scanned the ballroom.

Still, no Tessa.

A footman bearing a silver tray topped with bubbling coupes of champagne appeared. Out of habit, Julian lifted a glass and held it without taking a drink. Wrexford downed half the contents of his in a single gulp. The boisterous belch that followed held not a hint of abashment. "For courage."

Julian snorted.

A familiar figure moved into view—Tessa.

His hearing became muffled, as if he'd entered a very long tunnel and she was the light at the end.

It was only when he began to follow the elegant curve of her neck that the obvious struck him…

Tessa wasn't wearing her usual uniform of cravat and waistcoat, but rather a silk evening gown of pale lilac, its cap sleeves of the same sheer ivory fabric as the fichu at her décolletage. A modest dress in the eyes of society, but one that suited Tessa, who wasn't given to displays of her person.

Her person?

Was that how he was describing the body he'd seen…touched…and pleasured?

Then he noticed it—the strand of lustrous pink pearls, flowing across her collarbone and down the front of her bodice.

The pearl necklace he'd bought her.

His mouth went dry. Pearls were known for their iridescent beauty. But they had other uses, too. Uses he wanted nothing more in this moment than to demonstrate—thoroughly—upon her person.

Without thinking, he took a step in her direction, shoving his champagne coupe into Wrexford's empty hand.

"Ah, yes," said the earl. "More courage."

The words fell on deaf ears.

Tessa's gaze shifted and found Julian's—as if she'd long since spotted him and had been monitoring his movements.

Of course, she would. Nothing got by Tessa.

By the time he reached her, the string quartet struck up a waltz. He lifted her hand, twined his fingers through hers, and pulled her into his arms and the stream of the dance.

He hadn't asked for permission.

Her eyes told him he didn't need to.

Tessa hadn't beensure Julian would come tonight.

Though she'd known he was invited.

A discreet scan of the guest list yesterday had confirmed as much.

But the night had proceeded along like clockwork with Gabriel introducing himself to society as the new Duke of Acaster and his sisters in their come-out. The congratulations had poured in and the dancing commenced—and there had been no sign of the Marquess of Ormonde.

His absence had produced an ache of yearning inside Tessa unlike anything she'd ever experienced—or could have predicted.

What havoc the man had wrought within her—body and mind.

She'd been keeping half an eye out for him wherever she went. The Archangel…on the street…even in her house, as she kept an ear out for his knock. Then tonight, she'd, at last, spotted him—the dashing Marquess of Ormonde in his evening blacks.

To her, Julian.

When he'd started walking toward her, with that glint in his eyes, she knew they wouldn't be able not to touch one another. That momentum flowed in an inevitable direction.

They would touch.

Fortunately, this was a ball and dancing was a useful excuse—touch sanctioned by society.

The sure grasp of his fingers wrapped around hers…the firm hold of the hand upon her ribs…as they entered the silken one-two-three of the waltz. Her body responded to being held in his strong arms in the only way it knew how—to surrender. They danced as if they were the only two people who mattered in the world.

It was a problem.

But not, surprisingly, one which Tessa felt inclined to solve.

Which was a problem in itself.

They'd done a circuit of the dancing floor before he spoke. "You're wearing?—"

Her snort cut across him, and curiosity flicked in his eyes. She experienced mild relief in the reaction—in the distance it provided. "A proper ballgown?" she finished for him.

A quizzical cant to his head, he said, "The pearls."

Degree by degree, Tessa grew hot. She shouldn't have worn the pearls.

But she had.

Because the possibility had existed that Julian would be here, and she hadn't been able to leave them in their velvet box.

It didn't follow logic, but that was the fact of the matter.

She liked the feel of them against her skin—something of him against her skin.

The fact was she might be a little obsessed with the marquess.

Which had been her way for her entire life. When something intrigued her, she gave her whole being over to it until she solved it.

And the man holding her in his arms intrigued her.

It was because of what he appeared to be—and how he wasn't that man.

It was what he did to her body.

It was what she wanted him to do again.

So, she'd worn the pearls.

She'd wanted him to notice—and see his reaction when he did.

She wanted to produce reactions in him—seismic reactions.

Reactions that quaked him to his core.

They took another swirling turn about the dancing floor before he said, "They've put marriage odds on you, you know." She just caught the tentative note in his voice.

"They'll put odds on any tired, old nag, won't they?" she asked lightly. "As part owner of a gaming hell, I should know."

His brow lifted in undisguised skepticism. "Tired, old nag?"

"Yes, well, figure of speech."

"Surely, you don't think of yourself that way."

"As a matter of fact, I don't." She gave a self-effacing laugh that emerged more giggle than intended. "I think entirely too highly of myself and my abilities to harbor such a reductive idea of femininity."

Julian snorted, skeptical clouds somewhat receded.

"Still," she continued, "as far as the action those gentlemen will see out of me, I may as well be a tired, old nag."

That funny look entered Julian's eyes again.

"Tessa, if you were a horse, you would be a Thoroughbred."

Another giggle wanted to bubble up, but she didn't allow it its head.

It was the look in his eyes that stopped her.

The very earnestness within.

He'd just paid her a very high compliment, and she couldn't toss it aside with a laugh, like some bit of rubbish.

And this compliment…She could see it wasn't easily spoken, and a thought struck her an instant later—one that seemed impossible.

Through caught breath, she asked, "You're not accustomed to courting ladies, are you?"

He hesitated only a moment. "I don't court ladies."

Tessa felt her brow gather, meeting his in seriousness. Words, by their very nature, were an ephemeral bit of nothing that, once released, floated out to join all the infinite others in the ether.

But these words, spoken by this man, held a weight—a weight solidly yoked about his shoulders.

These words…

They emerged with a rote finality that held the ring of closely held truth.

These words…

They were a burden.

"But…why?"

Julian tensed his jaw and directed his gaze over her shoulder and led her through the steps of the dance for the next thirty seconds.

Confusion tumbled through Tessa. She was close to something, but she wasn't sure what.

And when she was close to a truth, she knew of but one way to proceed—forward. She'd never been one to let confusion stand.

"You are the Marquess of Ormonde," she said.

He flinched.

She was getting closer…

"Why wouldn't you court ladies? Surely, they must compete for your attention." She made a point of glancing around the crowded dancing floor. "I can count five unmarried ladies staring at you from behind their fans."

"It's not your concern," he said through clenched teeth. "Leave it."

Oh, but Tessa couldn't…"I," she said, "am a lady."

Impenetrable emotion flashed behind his eyes, but nothing more passed between his lips. Somehow, that simple truth—I am a lady—was a provocative statement.

Which only notched up her curiosity another degree.

"So, to be clear," she pressed, recklessness running zigzags through her. "Whatever it is you and I have been doing is not courting."

That got his attention.

Behind narrowed eyes usually so clear and blue marched a jumble of emotions that would take Tessa a decade of years to untangle. But it all added to one certainty: His mask of amiability and good nature hid a man tortured down to the bones of his very existence.

She still wasn't sure what the mark had been, but she'd hit it dead center.

Instinctively, her hand tightened around his and she stepped so close not even a whisper of air came between them, so close her mouth could've touched his neck, and said, "Julian…"

That instant, the violins struck the final flourish of the waltz. Before Tessa could gather what he was about, he broke free of her grasp, took a step back, and bowed, his face implacable granite. Then he pivoted on his heel and left her standing alone in the center of the dancing floor, her mouth agape with unconcealed shock.

What in the blazes had just happened?

Her feet wanted to chase after him—even started to—but a voice at her back stopped her. "Sister."