Her heart skipped.
Anthony.
He stood with one shoulder resting casually against the wall, a glass loosely held between his fingers. His dark coat was immaculate. The candlelight cast shadows across his features, but there was no mistaking him now.
He was the man from the lake, the man whose voice she had listened to in the garden. The man who had just wagered Ravensmere on her sister's heart.
Penelope's breath caught. For a moment, the noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into the background. The music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—all of it became distant, almost indistinct.
Anthony did not look away. Neither did she.
There was something unnervingly calm about his gaze, as though he had known all along that their paths would cross again.
Penelope's heart began to beat harder, as though she feared it might break her ribs. His expression was impossible to read from across the crowded ballroom.
