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“I didn’t land him,” Felicity said absently, pressing forward.
Natasha took on the look of a wild barn cat, mouse in sight. “You didn’t?”
Silence followed, then her mother’s too loud laughter. “Oh, Felicity! What a jest. Of course, the banns have been read! There was an announcement in the News!”
“I suppose so. Well, either way, I would not take such interest in it, Tasha . . .” Felicity said, turning a cool gaze on the other woman, “as even if I did land him, you’d never be welcome in our home, anyway.”
Tasha’s mouth fell open at the words, and Felicity’s mother gasped her horror at Felicity’s rudeness. Blessedly, Felicity was saved from having to continue by the discovery of her fiancé, a blond head taller than anyone else in the ballroom, on the other side of the mad crush. The moment she saw him, her heart began to pound. She broke away from her unwelcome companions, weaving through the crowd to get to him.
To get free of him.
He was alone when she reached him, stick-straight and staring aimlessly at the crowd. She placed herself directly in front of him. “Hello, Your Grace.”
His gaze flickered to her, then back to the ball. “I asked you not to call me that.” He paused. “Who is that woman?”
She looked over her shoulder to find Natasha simpering nearby, playing the wide-eyed victim.
“Lady Natasha Corkwood.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her she’d never be welcome in our home.”
He met her eyes. “Why not?”
“Because she hurt me. And I find I’m through with being hurt.”
He shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“Not that it matters, as we shan’t share a home.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it’s a fine figure of speech, and I’m sure it helped get your point across.”
She took a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant, though.”
He looked to her, and she saw understanding in his gaze. Understanding and something else. Something like . . . respect? “What is it?”
It seemed fitting that an engagement begun in front of all the world ended in front of it. At least Felicity was ending it to the duke’s face, instead of to a collection of maddening gossips. “I’m afraid I cannot marry you.”
That got his attention. He watched her for a long moment, and then said, “May I ask why?”
Half the world was watching, and Felicity found she did not care. But surely the duke cared. “Would you like to find a place where we might . . . talk?”
“Not particularly,” he said.
That gave her pause. “Your Gr—” She stopped. “Duke.”
“Tell me why.”
“All right,” she said, her heart pounding. “Because I love another. Because I think he could love me. All I have to do is convince him that I want him more than I want this world.”
He met her eyes. “I don’t imagine your father will be thrilled with your decision.”
She shook her head. “I don’t imagine so. I was something of a last hope for him.”
“For your brother, as well,” he pointed out. “They were more than happy to take my money.”
“In exchange for a loveless marriage,” she said. She shook her head. “I don’t wish that.”
“And what do you know of love?” he asked, the words a quiet scoff.
I would walk through fire for him. Whit had used the words in the warehouse the other night, explaining the loyalty of Devil’s employees. She understood it now. She loved him. She looked to the duke. “Enough to know that I want it more than I want the rest.”
He smirked at that.
“And you should, too,” she added. When he did not reply, she added her plea, tentatively, “I wonder if I might convince you to invest with my brother in some way? He’s very knowledgeable in business, despite—”
He cut her off. “Tell me what it looks like.”
She hesitated. He was asking about . . . love? “It’s impossible to describe.”
“Try.”
She looked away, her gaze settling on a dancing couple, the woman in a beautiful sapphire gown. They were mid-turn, her back in a perfect arch over his strong arm, her skirts flaring out behind her. She stared up at him, smiling, and he, down at her, rapt, and in that moment, they were perfect enough to steal breath. Not because of her dress or his coat or how they moved or the fact that when they stopped that turn, her skirts would swirl around them both, and he would feel their heavy weight on his legs, and wish for a lifetime of the sensation.
Sadness and desire and resolve warred within her when Felicity returned her attention to the duke. “You find your match. You find your match, and you let them love you.”
“It is not that easy.” The words were gruff.
“Well,” she said. “You could start by looking for her.”
“I’ve been looking for her for twelve years. For longer. For as long as I can remember.” The words were impossible to misunderstand. The duke was not speaking of a nameless, faceless woman with whom he might live out the rest of his days. He was looking for someone specific.
She nodded. “She is worth the wait, then. And when you do find her, you will be happy for this moment.”
“When I find her, I shall be the most unhappy I have ever been.”
A vision flashed. Of Devil, the night before, telling her he could never love her enough. Of his seeing her home as light began to streak across the sky. Of the soft kiss he gave her in the gardens, before she sneaked through the door to the kitchens. Of how it felt like farewell. Of the tears that had come, unbidden and unwelcome but there, nonetheless, until she’d decided that she was through having the world manipulate her, and that it was her time to manipulate the world.
“Would you like to dance, Lady Felicity?”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“We are at a ball, are we not? It’s not an unimaginable eventuality.”
She didn’t wish to dance.
He went on. “That, and all of London is watching, and you are not the least emotive person I have ever met.”
It wasn’t all of London, though. It was a tiny fraction of London, and one she was finding less and less tolerable. Nevertheless, she let him lead her to the center of the ballroom and collect her in his arms. They danced for several long minutes in silence, before he said, “So you think my brother in love with you.”
Felicity pulled back at that, or as far away as she could while dancing. She certainly had misheard. He clearly hadn’t said—“I—I beg your pardon?”
“There’s no need for you to play the fool, my lady,” he said. “He’s been after you from the start, has he not? From the night you announced our engagement to the world?” She missed a step at the words, and his arms tightened around her, lifting her off the ground for a heartbeat as she regained her footing.
Confusion flared, her gaze flying to his. He couldn’t be speaking of Devil.
Devil, whose eyes were that same, beautiful amber color as the duke’s—which she should have noticed earlier. Which she would have noticed earlier if Devil’s weren’t so full of heat, and these weren’t so cold.
Realization dawned.
Dear God.
Devil’s father had been the Duke of Marwick.
Which made the man with her—“Ewan.”
To an outside observer, the name appeared to have no impact on him. But Felicity was in his arms, scant inches from him, and she saw the way it struck him as clearly as if she’d clenched a fist and sent it right into his jaw. Every inch of him tightened. His jaw clenched. His breath stilled in his chest. His hand went to stone in hers, and his arm became steel at her back. And then he looked at her, his eyes full of truth and something she should have been afraid of.
But Felicity was not afraid. She was confused and shocked, and half a dozen other emotions, but she could not find room for fear, as she was too full of fury. Because if she was right and this man was Ewan, the
third brother, kidnapped to the country to vie for a title in some kind of monstrous game, then he was the winner of the game. And instead of keeping his brothers close and caring for them as they should have been cared for—as they deserved to be cared for—he’d left them to scrape and fight in the streets, never knowing where they would find their next kindness. Never knowing where they would find kindness, at all.
And for that alone she loathed him.
“He told you about me,” he said. Surprise in the words. Something close to awe.
She vibrated with anger. She made to stop the dance. He refused to allow it. She pressed back against his arm with all her strength. “Let me go.”
“Not yet.”
“You hurt him.”
