The carriage rolled to a smooth stop on the gravel drive of Danbury House. The residence was ablaze with light, every window a golden square against the dark blue of the evening. The sound of music and a hundred conversations spilled out into the night, a wave of noise and festivity.
Rowan descended first, a crisp, dark figure against the light. He turned and offered his hand to Ines. "Try to look as if you are not marching to your doom," he murmured, seeing how serious she looks, his thumb pressing lightly on her gloved fingers.
She gave him a small, tight smile and allowed him to help her down. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and horse. She immediately opened her silk fan, a small shield between herself and the world, and began a gentle, rhythmic flutter.
Taking her brother's arm, a solid and comforting weight, they joined the glittering river of guests flowing up the grand stone steps. At the top, a severe-looking butler stood with a silver tray, his expression unchanging as he accepted their invitations.
As they stepped across the threshold into the brilliant heat of the ballroom, Ines felt the familiar sense of resignation settle over her. She knew exactly how this would go. It was a play she had seen a hundred times, and she knew all her lines—which were, for the most part, silent.
First, find a corner, she thought, her eyes scanning the room. Preferably near a large plant. Plants do not make small talk.
Her routine was an art form, a carefully crafted strategy of invisibility. She would find an alcove, accept a glass of lemonade from a passing footman, and hold it like a prop. For the next three hours, she would become part of the scenery. If an unsuspecting gentleman, perhaps new to town or simply brave, happened to notice the quiet woman in the green dress, she would offer him a polite, detached smile. A smile that said, How kind of you to notice me, but please do move along. It was rarely necessary to say anything more.
She would carefully avoid the ladies of the ton. The married matrons who traded gossip like currency, the hopeful debutantes who looked at her with a mixture of pity and suspicion, and the unmarried women her own age who were desperate to seem interesting. Ines had no interest in their talk of potential suitors and the price of lace.
Her main occupation would be watching Rowan. He moved through the crowd with an easy grace, the perfect Duke. He would laugh with a politician, offer a charming bow to a dowager, and listen with serious attention to a landowner. And all the while, the women would watch him. Their fans would flutter faster, their laughter would become a little louder, their eyes would follow his every move. It was a predictable and, to Ines, a deeply uninteresting spectacle.
Her only real goal was to endure. She would pray for the ball to end quickly so she could return home, unlock her drawer, retrieve her manuscript, and lose herself in a world far more interesting than this one. A world of indulgence, and resistance, and a man named Stefan.
This ball will be no different, she told herself, her fan waving in a steady, calming rhythm.
And for the first hour, everything happened exactly as she had predicted.
She found a perfect spot behind a towering fern, partially obscuring her from the main flow of traffic. She smiled her polite, dismissive smile at a young lord whose cravat was tied far too tightly. She watched Rowan charm the formidable Duchess of Beaumont. She saw three different young ladies nearly trip over their own feet trying to catch his eye. It was all going precisely to plan. She was bored, invisible, and counting the minutes.
Then, she saw him.
Her gaze was drifting idly across the dance floor when she noticed her brother turn to greet a newcomer. Rowan clapped the man on the shoulder, a gesture of rare familiarity, and broke into a genuine, unguarded laugh.
Ines did not see the man's face. She only saw his back. He was tall, with broad shoulders that filled out his black evening coat to perfection. His dark hair was cut shorter than was currently in fashion. He stood with an easy confidence, one hand resting on his hip as he leaned in to speak to Rowan.
She didn't need to see his face. She knew.
Her fan stopped moving. The breath caught in her throat, a sudden, sharp intake of air.
Carcel.
Duke Carcel Anderson. The Duke of Carleton. Her brother's oldest and dearest friend. His brother. So she've heard Rowan say. She would recognize him anywhere, just as she would recognize Rowan. The way he stood, the tilt of his head—it was as familiar to her as the pattern of the wallpaper in her own bedroom.
A jolt went through her, sharp and unpleasant. The carefully constructed boredom of the evening shattered. The ballroom suddenly felt suffocatingly hot, the noise of the orchestra a painful pounding in her ears.
She had to get out. Now.
Without a second thought, she set her untouched lemonade on a nearby table and slipped away from the safety of her fern. She moved with a quiet urgency, keeping to the very edge of the room, her green dress blending with the shadows and tapestries. She was like a ghost, and for once, she was grateful for her practiced invisibility. No one saw her go.
She pushed through a set of double doors and found herself in a long, quiet hallway. She had no idea where she was going; she had never been to this part of Danbury House. She was wandering, lost. One corridor led to another, each lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors who seemed to watch her panicked flight with disapproval. She opened one door and found herself staring into a dark library, the air thick with the smell of leather and old paper. For a wild moment, she considered hiding there, but she quickly shut the door, her heart thumping against her ribs.
She felt a rising sense of panic. She was trapped in this endless, opulent house. Finally, at the end of a narrow hall, she saw it: a set of glass-paned French doors. Moonlight spilled through them, a pale, silver promise of escape.
She practically ran the last few feet and pushed the doors open, stumbling out into the cool night air.
She was in the garden.
The relief was so immense it almost brought her to her knees. The muffled sound of the waltz was a distant thrum, no longer overwhelming. The air was clean and fresh, fragrant with the scent of night-blooming roses and damp earth. She could breathe again.
She walked deeper into the garden, following a stone path until she found a secluded bench, tucked away behind a large, overgrown rose bush. She sank onto the cold stone, the chill seeping through the thin silk of her gown.
"What is Carcel doing here?" she whispered to the roses, the words sounding loud in the quiet. Her fan lay forgotten in her lap. "Isn't he supposed to be in Carleton?"
Carleton was his estate, two days' ride from London. He was meant to be there, managing his lands, far away from her. Far away from London society. As he always does.
A shiver ran through her, a product of the cold and something else entirely. The night air was cool on her bare shoulders and arms. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing them for warmth, her mind racing. Why was he here? And why hadn't Rowan told her he was coming?
Just then, a heavy weight settled over her shoulders. A wave of warmth instantly followed, smelling of wool and faint, masculine cologne. It was a man's evening coat. She relaxed immediately, a small, grateful sigh escaping her lips. It was Rowan, of course. He was always looking out for her, even when she was being difficult. He must have seen her leave and followed her.
"Thank you, Rowan," she said softly, without looking back. She leaned into the warmth of the coat, feeling safe.
A low, deep voice, smoother than her brother's and dangerously familiar, spoke from directly behind her.
"I'm sorry to have you disappointed," the voice said. "I'm not Rowan."