Lady Priscilla smiled. It was a small, polite smile that did not quite reach her cool, blue eyes.
"It has been a while," Priscilla continued, her gaze sweeping over Ines’s gold dress with a quick, assessing look.
Ines swallowed. She felt, suddenly, very short, and very clumsy.
"Lady Priscilla," Ines said, forcing herself to curtsy. "Welco to our ho."
"Thank you," Priscilla said. She stepped closer, entering Ines’s personal space. She slled of lilies. Cold, white lilies.
"I must say," Priscilla said, opening her fan with a sharp snap. "I was surprised to receive an invitation. I heard you do not enjoy... company."
Ines gripped her own hands together. "My brother... he enjoys entertaining."
"Ah, yes. The Duke." Priscilla glanced toward the center of the room, where Rowan and Carcel stood. Her eyes lingered, unmistakably, on Carcel.
She turned back to Ines, a strange, knowing glint in her eyes.
"And the Duke of Carleton," Priscilla said softly. "He is staying here, is he not?"
Ines felt a chill. "Yes. He is... here on business."
"Business," Priscilla repeated. She smiled again. "How fortunate for you. To have such... company."
There was sothing in her tone. A suggestion. A question.
Ines’s mind raced. Does she know? Does she suspect?
"He is my brother’s friend," Ines said quickly, defensively. "He is like a brother to ."
The lie tasted like ash in her mouth. Brother. After what they had done.
Priscilla’s eyebrows rose slightly. "A brother? How sweet."
She took a step closer. "But you know, Lady Ines... brothers do not look at their sisters the way he was just looking at you."
Ines froze.
"Be careful," Priscilla whispered. "n like that... they are not for the faint of heart. And they are certainly not for... ladies like you."
Ines frowned. The expression was small, a tiny crinkle between her brows, but it was the only crack in her porcelain mask.
Lady Priscilla Alworth saw the frown. She saw the hit land. She snapped her fan shut with a practiced flick of her wrist, bringing the painted silk to her lips to hide a smile that wasn’t really there.
"Oh, pardon ," Priscilla said, her voice dripping with a sweetness that was entirely artificial. "I spoke forthrightly. My mother always tells my honesty will be my undoing."
She didn’t look sorry. She looked satisfied.
Priscilla turned her head, her diamond earrings catching the candlelight. She looked back toward the center of the room, toward the fireplace where Rowan and Carcel had been standing just monts before.
"By the way," Priscilla asked, her tone light and conversational, "where is the Duke of Carleton? I think I saw him over there earlier."
Ines blinked, shaking off the sting of Priscilla’s insult. She, too, looked in the sa direction.
Her eyes scanned the crowd. She saw the red sash of her brother’s uniform. Rowan was still there, laughing at a joke told by Lord Berbrooke, holding his champagne glass high. But the dark, imposing figure that had stood beside him... was gone.
Carcel wasn’t there.
It was just Rowan, entertaining guests, surrounded by a sea of black coats and pastel dresses.
He was over there earlier, Ines thought to herself, a spike of confusion piercing her chest. I saw him. How does a man that size simply vanish in a crowded room?
Did he leave? Did he go to the card room?
"Ladies," a deep voice spoke from directly behind them. "Whom are you looking for?"
Ines jumped. Her heart, already fragile from the evening’s stress, gave a violent lurch against her ribs.
She spun around. Priscilla turned with a graceful swirl of silver silk.
It was Carcel.
He was standing right there, inches away, looming over them like a dark, elegant storm cloud.
Ines stared at him. He was so close she could sll the faint, familiar scent of sandalwood and starch that clung to his evening coat. His face was calm, his expression unreadable, but his eyes... his eyes were dark.
Priscilla recovered instantly. She dipped into a low, flawless curtsy, her silver dress shimring like a pool of water.
"Your Grace," she cooed, looking up at him through her long lashes. "It has been a while."
Carcel did not smile. He gave a short, stiff bow, the bare minimum required by etiquette.
"Lady Alworth," he acknowledged, his voice cool.
Ines stood frozen, clutching her dance cards. Her mind was racing.
Why is Carcel here? she thought, her eyes darting between him and the distant spot near the fireplace. He was far away just monts ago. He was with Rowan. Did he... did he walk all the way over here just to greet Priscilla?
It made sense. Of course, it made sense. Priscilla was the beauty. Priscilla was the "match." If he saw Priscilla standing by a pillar, of course he would cross the room to speak to her.
He didn’t co for , Ines told herself, a cold weight settling in her stomach. He ca for the diamond.
Just then, the murmur of the crowd died down slightly. The conductor of the orchestra tapped his baton against his music stand.
A hush fell over the ballroom. Then, the strings began to play. It was a waltz. A slow, sweeping, romantic lody that signaled the true beginning of the evening.
Priscilla bead. Her face lit up with a predatory delight.
"Oh," she said, clasping her hands together. "It’s ti for the first dance."
Ines stood still, staring past Carcel’s shoulder at the orchestra. The music washed over her, beautiful and cruel.
The first dance.
She knew what it ant. Every woman in the room knew what it ant. It was written in the unwritten laws of the ton.
The first dance at a ball is very important, Ines thought to herself, reciting the rules she had read in a hundred etiquette books. Especially during the social season. It is not just a dance. It is a statent.
It’s customary to ask the person you like the most for the first dance. It is a subtle way to show your interest. It is a public declaration.
If a man asked a woman for the first dance, the gossips would be talking about a wedding by breakfast.
She looked at Carcel. He was standing tall, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the two won.
She looked at Priscilla. The other woman was practically vibrating with anticipation. She was preening.
If he ca all the way here, Ines reasoned, her heart breaking quietly inside her chest, it must be to ask Priscilla for a dance. It is the only logical explanation.
Her mind went back to that intense gaze he had shot her earlier. The one that had stopped her breath.
That look earlier... she thought, feeling foolish now. It must have been directed at Priscilla. She was walking toward . He was looking at her approaching . Even she didn’t notice. I was just... in the way.
The thought was sad.
She took a small step back. She needed to get out of the way. She needed to let the "perfect couple" have their mont. She would fade into the shadows of the pillar, just as she always did.
Priscilla did not wait for an invitation. She was bold. She was confident.
She reached up and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear, a gesture ant to draw attention to her long, elegant neck. She tilted her head, looking up at Carcel with a smile that was both inviting and expectant.
"I am excited to dance with Your Grace again," Priscilla said, her voice low and husky, trying to be flirty. "I rember how well you lead. It has been too long."
She extended her hand slightly, ready for him to take it. She was certain. The crowd was watching. The music was playing. It was perfect.
Carcel looked at Priscilla. He looked at her extended hand. He looked at her expectant smile.
His expression did not change. He did not smile back. He did not reach for her hand.
"Ah," he said.
His voice was a smooth baritone. It was deep, and calm, and it carried effortlessly over the music.
"There seems to be a misunderstanding, Lady Alworth."
Priscilla’s smile faltered. Her hand froze in mid-air. "A... misunderstanding?"
Carcel turned.
He turned away from the shimring silver dress. He turned away from the blonde hair. He turned away from the "perfect match."
He turned to Ines.
Ines was halfway into the shadow of the pillar, trying to disappear. She looked up, startled, as his dark gaze locked onto hers.
He reached out.
He did not ask. He did not offer a polite, open palm.
His large, warm hand shot out and wrapped firmly around Ines’s wrist.
It was a shock. A jolt of heat that went straight up her arm. His grip was strong. It was possessive. It was not the grip of a dance partner; it was the grip of a man claiming sothing that belonged to him.
He pulled her gently, but inexorably, out of the shadows and to his side.
He looked back at Priscilla, his face perfectly polite, but his eyes cold.
"I want to have my first dance," Carcel said, his voice ringing clear and true, "with Lady Hamilton."
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