Three Years Ago…
The ballroom was hot. It was not just the heat of a thousand beeswax candles burning in the crystal chandeliers above. It was the heat of too many bodies, too much perfume, and too much ambition packed into one room.
Rowan Hamilton, the Duke of Ford, stood near the edge of the dance floor. He adjusted the black silk mask that covered the upper half of his face. He hated masquerade balls. People claimed that masks made them feel free. They said masks allowed them to be someone else for a night. But for Rowan, it was the opposite. The mask made people delusional.
He had only come to this country estate to help prepare for his sister's wedding. Ines was going to be married soon. The house was full of ribbons, flowers, and stressed relatives.
When his aunt Margery asked him to represent the family at this neighbor's ball, he could not say no. He was the "Golden Duke." He always did the right thing. He always said yes.
"Your Grace!" a voice squeaked from his left.
Rowan turned. A young woman in a shepherdess costume was beaming at him. Behind her, three other young ladies were giggling behind their fans.
"I knew it was you," the shepherdess said, batting her eyelashes. "Even with the mask. No one else stands so tall. No one else has such… presence."
Rowan forced a polite smile. It was the smile he had practiced since he was a boy. "You are very kind, my lady."
"Will you dance?" she asked eagerly. " The orchestra is starting a waltz."
"I…" Rowan looked for an escape. He felt like a fox being hunted by a pack of very cheerful hounds. "I am afraid I promised the next dance to my aunt. Please excuse me."
He bowed. It was a perfect bow. Before the ladies could protest, he turned and walked away. He moved quickly, weaving through the crowd of colorful costumes. He needed air. He needed silence.
He saw a set of glass doors partially covered by heavy velvet curtains. He slipped through them and stepped out onto the balcony.
The change was instant. The noise of the violins and the chatter faded into a dull hum. The air outside was crisp and cold. It bit at his cheeks, stinging in a good way.
Rowan took a deep breath, filling his lungs with clean air. He walked to the stone railing and looked out at the dark garden below. Finally, he was alone.
Or so he thought.
"Let me go!"
The voice was a whisper, but it was sharp. It came from the shadowed corner of the long balcony.
Rowan froze. He did not want to eavesdrop, but his feet would not move.
"Come now, don't be difficult," a man's voice hissed. It was a low, wet sound. It sounded like oil sliding over stone. "You know this is how it ends."
Rowan turned his head slightly. In the shadows, he saw two figures. One was a large, older man. He had gray hair thinning at the top and a mask that did not hide the cruelty in his eyes. He had a young woman pinned against the stone wall.
The woman was small. She wore a simple dress that looked like it had seen better days, and a plain black mask. Her hands were pushing against the man's chest, but he was much stronger.
"You are meant to be mine," the man hissed, leaning closer to her face. His hand moved to grab her waist.
The woman turned her face away. Her voice shook, but she did not cry. "I am someone else's intended. I don't know what you and my uncle agreed on, but it's not going to happen. I will not marry you."
"Your uncle has already taken my money," the man laughed. It was an ugly sound. "You are bought and paid for."
Rowan's hand clenched into a fist at his side. He stepped forward. He could not stand by and watch this. It went against everything he was. It went against every lesson his father had taught him.
But before Rowan could speak, the woman looked up.
She saw him.
Her eyes went wide behind her mask. For a second, she looked terrified. She looked like she thought Rowan was another enemy. But then, her eyes changed. A spark of intelligence flashed in them. She did not scream for help or even spoke a word.
Noticing someone behind him, the old man turned to look, giving her a window. She shoved the old man back just an inch, creating a tiny bit of space. Then, she ran.
She did not run away. She ran straight at Rowan.
Rowan blinked, confused. "Madam, I—"
She crashed into his chest. She was soft and smelled of rain and cheap soap. Her hands grabbed the lapels of his coat, pulling him down.
"Where have you been?" she said, her voice loud and breathless. "I have been looking everywhere for you, my dear."
Rowan stood frozen. His brain stopped working. "I… what?"
She stood on her tiptoes. Her eyes locked onto his. They were dark, intense, and pleading.
"Play along," she whispered. The words were so quiet only he could hear them.
Then, she kissed him.
It was not a romantic kiss. It was a desperate collision. Her lips were cold from the night air, but her breath was warm. She pressed against him hard, as if she was trying to use his body as a shield.
Rowan's hands hovered in the air for a moment. He was a Duke. He did not kiss strangers on balconies. It was improper. It was scandalous.
But he felt her trembling against him. He felt the desperation in her grip.
Slowly, his instincts took over. He was a protector. He lowered his hands and placed them on her waist to steady her.
The older man stomped out of the shadows. His face was red with anger. "What is this? Who are you?"
The woman broke the kiss, but she did not let go of Rowan. She tucked her head under his chin, hiding her face in his neck. She was shaking.
Rowan looked at the older man. He straightened his spine. He made himself look as tall and as imposing as possible. He used his "Duke voice"—the one that made servants scramble and grown men apologize.
"Is there a problem?" Rowan asked coldly.
The older man squinted. He looked at Rowan's fine clothes. He looked at the way Rowan held himself. The man realized he was outclassed. He grunted, looking furious.
"I… I thought the lady was alone," the man muttered.
"As you can see," Rowan said, his voice flat and dangerous, "she is not."
Rowan looked down at the woman in his arms. He decided to play his part.
"What are you doing out in the cold, my love?" he asked softly.
He shrugged off his heavy tailcoat. With gentle hands, he draped the warm coat over her shaking shoulders. He pulled the collar up to hide her face even more.
"You will catch your death out here," he added.
The older man scoffed. He glared at them one last time, then turned and stomped back toward the ballroom doors. He looked like a child who had been told he could not have a sweet.
Rowan watched him go. He waited until the heavy curtains fell back into place.
"He is gone," Rowan said quietly.
Immediately, the woman pushed herself away from him.
It was so sudden that Rowan almost stumbled back. She did not look at him with stars in her eyes. She did not swoon. She pulled back as if his chest was made of hot coal.
She lifted the back of her hand and wiped her mouth vigorously, scrubbing away the kiss.
Rowan felt a strange pinch in his chest. Usually, women did not wipe away his kisses. Usually, they asked for another one.
"Thank you so much, my lord," she said. Her voice was no longer trembling. It was brisk and business-like. She adjusted her own dress, checking for tears.
"I…" Rowan cleared his throat. He felt awkward standing there in his shirt sleeves. "It is okay. It is fine. I'm… I am happy to help."
"I don't have anything to repay the favor, but…" She paused. She looked around the balcony, as if searching for an exit that wasn't the door.
"There is no need for repayment," Rowan said earnestly. "That man was a brute. Are you safe? Do you have a carriage?"
She ignored his question. She took a step toward the glass doors and peeked through the gap in the curtains.
She stiffened.
"Damn it!" she hissed.
Rowan blinked. He had never heard a lady curse with such feeling. And she had said it in French.
"What is wrong?" Rowan asked, stepping closer.
She turned to him. Her eyes were wide with panic again. "My uncle. He is talking to that old man. They are guarding the doors. If I go back in there, they will grab me."
She looked trapped. She looked like a small animal caught in a cage.
Rowan frowned. "I will escort you. They will not dare touch you if you are on the arm of a Duke."
She shook her head violently. "No. You don't understand. My uncle is… he doesn't care about titles. He only cares about money. If he sees me, he will drag me away and I will be on a ship by morning to another bidder, highest one actually. I cannot be seen."
She spun around and ran to the edge of the balcony. She leaned over the stone railing, looking down into the darkness.
"What are you doing?" Rowan asked, alarmed.
"I have to go," she muttered. She started unbuckling her shoes. "I have to get out of here."
She kicked off one shoe, then the other. She picked them up and held them in one hand.
"You cannot be serious," Rowan said. He rushed to the railing and looked down. "It is a twenty-foot drop. You will break your legs."